Amor Fati
by Kittenly
Summary: Fantasy AU. Born and abandoned on Daemons' Day, Alfred is taken and raised by the gods, and it is prophesied that he will bring the victory to them in their age long war against the Daemons of the mortal realm. However, though Alfred meets and befriends a Daemon named Arthur, Fate marches on, and the Daemon war is ending.  USUK, various other pairings
1. Prologue

**A/N So this is my first piece of fanfiction I've published, a few notes before we begin:**

**This is based of an idea that I had for an original story, but it morphed into a fanfic. So yeah, there are a couple of moderately important OCs, but hopefully they'll be interesting and there will be plenty of familiar faces otherwise. **

**The spelling of Daemon is intentional, though it's used more like demon at first, the intent will become clear soon enough. **

* * *

**Amor Fati - Prologue**

A storm raged through the mountains, carrying the howls and screams of Daemons. It was their night, after all. The longest night of the year, the night when the sun died and the people prayed for its return. Snowy wind raged through the pine-dotted foothills, cracking branches and sending boulders tumbling down the mountainside with an eerie, joyful laugh. Among the trees was a walled city, protected by imposing iron gates. The rough metal wound around the topmost timbers that made up the containing wall, a slight deterrence against what lurked outside the walls.

Within the iron-bound town, the houses were dark, not a gleam of candle light in any of the small windows. The wind whipped up the main street, breaking against a towering structure of wood and metal. A temple rose above the walls of the town, defiant against the wind. Above the heavy iron doors hung a spindly twelve pointed star, a symbol of unity, of devotion, of the gods' everlasting protection. Inside, the entirety of the town huddled around a priest, each holding a candle and keeping vigil until Pakram, god of the sun, would be reborn and banish the darkness and the shrieking Daemons from the winter air.

In one corner of the temple, a woman screamed. Her brow was slick with sweat and her eyes hazy with agony. She called for help, begged for someone, anyone. Her body convulsed as white hot pain shot through her lower back. She continued, voice gradually getting weaker as her blood spilled over the floor. The faithful, mere paces away, heard and flinched at every shout, but none made a move to comfort the poor, cursed woman. With a final scream, she fell silent, the silence soaking through the church like the woman's blood into the rough floorboards. The faithful kept themselves bent in prayer until dawn light began to filter through the high windows. Their collective relief was palpable. Daemon's Night was over, for an entire year, and now it was time to celebrate and drink to the return of the sun.

It was the priest who approached the woman. She was still. No breath lifted her side. The priest stared at her pitiful form, so small in death. He wondered what she had done, to receive such a fate. He turned the curse itself. He prayed that it was stillborn. He turned over the baby, so silent thus far, its umbilical cord already shriveled and disconnected. He went to lift it, brush some of its mothers blood off its forehead when it opened its — his — eyes. The priest gazed into the sky blue orbs. Horror slipped down his spine. The thing was cursed, born on the night of Daemons. He would have to take it out of the city and let the elements take care of it. It was law; it was doctrine. As if he sensed his fate, the baby began to cry. The priest washed him, dried him with a rough towel, and prepared him for his death. The boy never ceased crying, though the priest made no effort to soothe the accursed child. After the customary bath was complete, he wrapped the infant in a thin blanket and carried what must have been the loudest child in all of the mortal realm out of the city.

The priest couldn't help but admire the glitter of snow in the new sun's light. He trudged through the deep pine woods to where he could, with as little conscious as possible, leave the child to die. He laid the child to rest in a frosty clearing surrounded by thick fir trees. The snow was windblown and hard, crunching with every step the he took. He didn't think it was possible, but the baby began to weep harder. Guilt twisted the priest's heart. He could just take the child back, pretend it was a mistake. But no, he couldn't. The town relied on him. He could not inflict a Daemon child on them. Guilt burning his throat, he left the child.

The baby continued to scream as loud as he could until the sun began to set. He grew weaker, cries fading into faint hiccups. Tears frozen to his white face, he settled into silence. The moon peaked over the tops of the trees, and with it came a light laugh. The baby opened his eyes, searching for the voice. When it began to fade, he found his voice again, and began wailing. The laughter stopped. Soft hands encircled the child, cradling it to the chest of a tall woman. Despite the cold air, she wore only a light shift, belted just above her waist. It shimmered in the moonlight, a match to the silver glow. She swept a long white braid over her shoulder and shifted the baby to a more comfortable position. She cooed to the child, voice like midsummer's rain. He calmed in her arms, and stared up with his wide blue eyes. She smoothed his brow, trailing her fingers through his thin blond hair and over a small piece that decided to stick straight up. She knew what he was, a child of the Daemon's night, cursed, better off dead. But maybe, she pondered, it was worth it to make sure.

Still cradling the child, she turned on her heel and found the invisible tie to her own world, to Caelei. She stepped through the marble gateway and made her way through the mountain passes towards the dwelling of the Seer.

She wound her way to the entrance of a cave. Deep green moss huge over the opening. The baby shifted uncomfortably as the smoky cavern stung his eyes, letting out a small whimper.

A stooped man in nothing but a ragged grey robe sat with his back to the entrance, casting stones into the large fire before him. The goddess dipped her head in respect. "Circalous, you are granted the gift of Sight, I beg you—"

"Why Arlya?" said a sandpaper voice. "Why have you brought the spawn of the night to the home of the gods? He is cursed. Why didn't you leave him? That kind of filth deserves only death."

The goddess clutched the child tighter to her chest. "He's a baby! He cannot be blamed for his own birth."

The old man whipped toward the goddess. He bored into her with cataract coated eyes set deep above a crooked nose. "You felt it. The very air crackled with the black magic of the Daemons. None were left untouched, least of all this fresh life with his first breath so tainted. We've seen it over the eons, those born on the death of the sun will forever be cursed, hated, wild." He spat on the last word.

"Prove it," said Arlya, her voice quiet and cold.

"What?"

Arlya glared at him over the child, every facet of her face tight with rage. "Prove it. Look into his future. See what he is to become."

"He is naught but a monster. He is—"

"Prove it."

The god stepped down, defeated. "Your affection shall be your demise, daughter. I shall look."

The baby whimpered again. Arlya clutched him to her breast. The god of prophecy turned back to his fire. The shadows around the cave began to twist, dancing with the magic of the god. He jerked above the fire, shuddering as the fates moved through him. His voice rang through the cave:

_Daemons howl and pierce our very core,_

_As order crumbles, Gods, your power wanes!_

_Now time grows dark, a breath before the war_

_Where Moon will spatter blood o're silent plains._

_But plucked from wind-blown snows will he be brought_

_To mountains on the sky, to Caelei, God-home._

_He shall here learn the world, and dreams, and thought,_

_Though whispers in the sky call his blood to roam._

_A gift the gods give naught shall his guide be,_

_Though deep he shall fall, down to Daemon's heart._

_Returned from purgatory, eyes ready to see,_

_He'll take up metal cold to play his part._

_Against this chaos he will lead the quest:_

_The final vict'ry by sword of th' God-Blest._

The god sunk back down to the floor and the lights returned to normal. Though the cavern was uncomfortably warm from the fire, Circalous shook. The prophesy hummed in the air, echoing down through the cave. He knelt, trying to process what the fates had just revealed. This child? This daemon-cursed human? It couldn't be.

"It's impossible. The gods not able — the Daemons in all these years. There is no way — that piece of filth — a human of all—"

A triumphant gleam shone in Arlya's silver eyes. "Are you perhaps you suggesting you might have Seen wrong?" she said innocently.

The seer stopped his sputtering. His entire face flushed. "Insolent woman! I have Seen since the beginning ages of this earth. Never once have I been wrong. This time must be no different."

If gods were anything, they were prideful. Circalous would never admit to the possibility of his prophecy being wrong. No matter what he had thought before. The fates were never wrong. They were _fates_ after all.

The god returned to his fire, resigned. "What will you call him?"

The goddess's eyes turned down on the boy in her arms. He had drifted to sleep, bright blue eyes tucked behind his lids. She knew he was special, though she never dreamed to this extent. He would be their savior, their hero.

"Alfred. His name will be Alfred."

* * *

**A/N**

**AHHH! A prophesy! Fear not, I'll try to keep it as far from cliche as possible. Just stick with it?**

**Sorry for the lack of Hetalia characters here... None of them really seemed to fit these particular gods. Don't worry, a couple will make their debut next chapter. Any advice, ideas (any particular side plots/pairings of interest), _constructive_ criticism and the like are loved. **

**Poetry is not my strength. The only poetry I can make kind of work is the super structured kind such as this sonnet. Not to mention, it took me as long to write the prophesy as it took to write the rest of this. So odds are, this is the last of my poetry for a long time.  
**

**Other than that, I'll hopefully have maps posted and linked to by tomorrow, if not, Wednesday night at the latest.**


	2. The Court of the Gods

**A/N: This was supposed to be up a week ago! I'd promise faster updates, but that's really not realistic. I'll try to aim for once a week at least though. Thanks so much for those of you who subscribed and especially those of you who left wonderful comments. Also, thanks to me beta, Z, this wouldn't be half as good without you~

* * *

**

**Chapter One  
**

On the highest peak of Caelei stood the court of the gods. It was carved out of the grey, dead stone that made up the terrain of the Heaven Realm. Twelve pillars came together at the mountain's peak, each with intricate iron decorations. The blue metal twisted, thin and web-like into various shapes: one pillar was entirely covered tangle of elegant flowers; another was wreathed in solid flame; one was twirled into menagerie of wild animals; spun metal humans impaling each other on sword and spear adorned another. The court was majestic, if cold.

Footsteps rang across the polished marble floor as the gods entered between the pillars. Engraved in the marble below where the pillars came to a peak was the twelve pointed star. Twelve gods took their seats, and the discussion began without ceremony.

"Let us be blunt," said Pakram, sweeping towards the center of the meeting hall, the morning sun catching his copper hair. "Winter is upon the mortal realm once more. The Daemons are growing restless. The mining towns of the mountains are already under strict curfew as night seems when the Daemons are most comfortable. The High Daemon of the mountain range is gathers his minions. His attack will be swift. We must take action—"

"Take action, you say?" Came a haughty sneer from across the hall. A tall woman dressed in scarlet armor stepped into the circle. "Why should we risk ourselves for a bunch of whining miners? There are more important people to protect. What about the soldiers posted down in the plains for the winter? The harlot of a high Daemon who dwells there is as loathsome as any other. This is war, and my soldiers need protection."

A third god stood and placed his hand on the seething war goddess. She glared up at his deathly pale face and his red eyes. The bow and quiver slung across his back did nothing to lessen his dangerous appearance. "Now Daka," he cooed into her ear. "Where would your lovely fighting machines be without iron? You know it's the best for fighting Daemons. Just thing of their burning flesh against your blade. The metal came from somewhere, and some filthy Daemon wants to destroy the people who get it for us. Are you going to let him?"

She glared at him, her desire to keep her precious soldiers safe for war and massacre at war with her hatred for Daemon-kind. Her hatred won. She cracked the other god a smile. "That most of the miners are also hunters has no bearing over this, does it, Gilbert?" she asked sarcastically.

"Of course it does. I just happened to turn it into a logical and convincing argument." Daka shivered at his words.

A snicker echoed through the halls. Gilbert glared at its source: a god, handsome by any standards, mortal or immortal. His golden hair was half tied up in the back while the rest fell loose around his face. He reclined on the throne, a thick violet cloak draped over him. "_Mon cher_," he began, blue eyes arrogant, "I believe my expertise in the arts of love may be rubbing of on you. That or the lovely, bloodthirsty goddess just doesn't know what a real lover could be like." He raised his narrow eyebrows at her.

Daka laughed, high and cold, but before she could retort, the willowy form of Arlya rose, concern etched over her face.

"Alfred is lost again," she said.

There was a communal sigh. Many of the gods were beginning to doubt the boy had any real use. It had been seventeen year since Arlya had brought him to Caelei and so far, he had shown no signs of any talent that would be useful in the Daemon war.

"Leave him, Arlya. Let the human find his own way out for once," said Gilbert. "Either that or he'll starve to death and we'll finally be rid of him. It's not as if he good at anything anyways."

The goddess stood to her full, rather impressive height, silver shift fluttering around her. "He has talent, even if your disgust towards humans makes you blind." Pakram repressed a sigh. It seemed like every time they held court something would drive her into a defensive fury over the boy she found. "Perhaps he just needs something, a gift, that would help prove that to you."

"Arlya, the prophesy specifically says a 'gift the gods give _naught,_'" said the violet clad god.

"I see, does prophesy now fall to the god of the arts, Francis? What will you claim next? War? We all know how skilled you are in that field," said Arlya, a cruel smile spreading across her face as Francis paled. "Alfred just needs a gift. We cannot expect him to end the Daemon war trapped in the canyons of Caelei."

She held the gods' attention. Her words made sense, for who was to say that the gift described in the prophesy was the only gift the boy needed?

"What is your proposal?" asked Prakam.

"He is to be our messenger."

USUK

A tall boy slumped against the rough side of the canyon. He had been wandering in circles all afternoon, hopelessly lost. His white tunic was smeared with grey dust and his ends of his dark breaches were starting to stick to the back of his knees. He rubbed under his glasses with the back of his hand, cursing to himself.

"Seventeen damn years and I still can't find my way from one side of this stupid mountain to the other." He ran his fingers through sunny blond hair. It really was no use, no matter how hard he tried, Alfred could never tell the mazes of paths from each other. The only thing he was sure of was that it was getting late. The sun had slipped out of sight from the narrow piece of sky that peaked out from between the great cliffs that lined the paths. Either that or he had somehow gotten turned around and was now going north rather than east, which was entirely possible. He tugged himself off the ground and wandered down the path, his fingers dragging along the dead stone. When he came to the next fork, he picked a direction at random, hoping either that he'd find his way to Kiku by sheer dumb luck or, the more likely option, one of the gods would take pity on him and guide him out.

Thankfully for Alfred, he was found sooner rather than later. He had only been walking for another few minutes when a hand dropped onto his shoulder. After yelping in surprise, he turned toward the god, though Alfred knew who it was by the distinct smell of cats.

"I was starting to worry I'd be lost here forever. Thanks, Heracles."

The god only nodded, and stared at Alfred in a slow, yet almost appraising manner. Alfred shuffled under his gaze, anxious to be out of the claustrophobic canyon.

"What is your skill?"

Alfred gave him a blank look. "What?"

"What is your skill?"

Alfred worried his lip, gazing at the ground. What was his skill? What did he mean by skill? Like Kiku's skill with his hands? He didn't have anything like that, or at least not that he knew of.

"I don't really know?" It came out as more of a question. "I mean I'm good at remembering stuff, except for maps and how to get around Caelei. I remember what Gil was telling Daka yesterday about the Daemon around that little mining town. Apparently the villagers can't go out at night anymore because the Daemons are so aggressive. The only thing keeping them safe is the iron wrapping around the containing wall. Apparently they also have a huge temple to Pakram there, that's made out of more iron than in most other towns." Curse it all, he was babbling again. He bit his tongue and looked for any reaction in the god. Heracles continued to stare, a small frown on his face. After a moment, he nodded.

"Kiku wants you," he said.

"I know. I'm technically on my way, but — well, you know, me, this mountain…"

Heracles grasped Alfred's shoulder. With an odd whooshing sensation, they were whipped straight to the peak that housed Heracles' garden and Kiku's workshop. Immediately upon landing, a flock of cats rushed through the garden to meet the fertility god. With final thanks, he set off down the pebble-line path to Kiku.

Kiku stood as Alfred approached. He stood, brushing at his grey-smudged work tunic. He looked at Alfred with his usual unreadable dark eyes under short, black hair.

"Alfred, I apologize for calling you all the way. Though I must admit I thought you would be more timely."

Alfred gaped for a moment, flushing red. A moment passed before Alfred noticed the teasing gleam in Kiku's eyes. Both broke into laughter, a rare smile spreading across Kiku's face. Alfred hugged his friend around the middle, ignoring how he briefly stiffened. Kiku was the only other human in Caelei, and Alfred's only real friend. They were an unlikely pair; Alfred was loud where Kiku had a soft voice, emotional where his friend was reserved. Perhaps it was that they were both human. As much as Alfred adored the gods, they were distant, and not particularly involved in most of his life. And it was Kiku who noticed Alfred's growing restlessness. He couldn't imagine a life in Caelei without something to do, especially for one with as much energy as Alfred. He had taken it upon himself to relieve some of Alfred's restless energy. He was a skilled craftsmen, his art honed by years of practice in a workshop designed by the gods, and though he had little experience in making this particular gift, he was rather proud of it. Released from Alfred's grasp, he bent down and held out a bundle wrapped in slick oilskin. "I thought you might like it. It is not much, and I am inexperienced in making such things," he said, his cheeks a light shade of pink.

Alfred eased the casing off his gift. His hands held a cherry wood lyre. It was beautiful— polished and shining, strung with delicate wire. It was a little rough, especially around some of the sharper curves, but Alfred saw no flaw. He stroked the strings and marveled at the sound. It hummed through the air, a higher, more somber sound than Alfred expected.

"It's beautiful," he whispered.

Kiku's cheeks darkened at the sincere praise. "I am glad you like it, Alfred. Perhaps you can ask Francis to instruct you?"

Alfred nodded, only half listening. He ran his fingers over the instrument, giving off a gentle crescendo. He plucked a few wires, noting the different tones. They sat together, side by side, Kiku watching the winter sky swirl from blue to orange to violet and Alfred entranced by the music that came from his instrument. The sun had long set when Arlya finally came to find him. She halted, surprised by the gentle notes. It had been too long since she had heard an instrument and she closed her eyes in pleasure.

"Alfred," she cooed, "what are you doing?"

The boy's head jerked up. He swallowed and ran his fingers over the polished wood.

"Nothing, really. Kiku gave this to me today," he said holding out the lyre. "I don't even know how to play it, but I'll get better fast, I promise!"

Arlya let out a bell-like laugh. "It sounds wonderful already, but it is much to late for you to be out. It is time to come home."

Alfred stood and shook out his legs stiff from sitting. He glanced around realizing that Kiku had already left. He nodded and held his hand out to the goddess. She swept them back to their own mountain peak. She drifted into the night, off to watch over the mortal realm by the light of the moon. Alfred leaned against the side of his bed, picking out tuneless notes deep into the night. It was only when his fingers were raw and bleeding did he succumb to slumber.

Arlya found him curled around the lyre the next morning. She stooped over him with a curious expression. Her hands strayed towards the lyre, eager to hold an instrument again, but stopped, her hand hovering above it. No, her mind argued. Her touch would just destroy it. She wouldn't do that to the boy. It was one of the few things here that had ever made him truly happy. She crouched in front of him and stared at the boy she had rescued from the mountainside. He was still the little child, his head tilted back against the bed and mouth open to the sky. The same small strand of hair still stood straight up as it did on the day she found him. She ran a cool hand over his cheek and down his neck, startling Alfred awake. He blinked up at her and pushed her hand away.

"Arlya?"

"Come, my baby. The gods have a gift waiting for you."

She turned and glided out of Alfred's room. He frowned. He had liked the pet name when he was little, but it bothered him now. He was not a baby. He stood and cursed himself for the awkward sleeping position. However, curiosity got the better of him, and he grabbed his glasses from the side table and walked after the goddess, wrapping his battered leather coat around him for the winter chill. Arlya waited outside and pulled Alfred close to her. They were whisked to highest of the mountain peaks. She guided him to the center of the court of the gods, hand firm around the back of his neck. It was mostly empty, only two other gods were present, Pakram and Francis. The former turned to face the newcomers, leaving other alone to fiddle with his rather ostentatious blue cape as he waited. Arlya danced up to the sun god, giving him a chaste peck on the cheek.

Alfred shuffled his feet as the gods whispered behind their hands, glancing at him every so often. They argued in whispers; Arlya seemed to be winning to no one's surprise. Finally Pakram nodded and waved Francis forward.

"You have lived here for almost eighteen years, have you not?" said the sun god. "And in that time have you done anything worthwhile?"

Alfred tried to hide his stung feelings, failing per usual, though the god did not seem to care.

"The time has come to remedy that. Francis?" With a flourish, the god of the arts held out a pair of boots, each with two fluttering white wings attached at the ankle. Alfred gazed at them, then up at the gods, confusion lining his face.

"You are to be our messenger." It was a command, a contract. Alfred nodded, he wasn't given a choice in the matter, but he was excited nonetheless. He took the boots from Francis, who winked, and slipped them on. The supple deerskin molded around his calf providing a tight grip. He pushed off from the marble floor, hovering. It was thrilling and strange. He overbalanced and toppled to the floor several times before he mastered the new way of holding himself in the air. Parkram and his wife eventually left the court, leaving Francis to supervise. Finally Alfred managed several consecutive moments of holding himself in place. Francis approached with mocking applause, though his eyes showed fondness.

"I hear you have recently received a lyre, _non_?"

"Yes. A present from Kiku."

"But you do not know how to play, do you?"

"Not really."

"I thought not. Come." He glanced back at Alfred, who looked at him with suspicion. "You want a teacher? Meet me in my garden." He smirked as Alfred jumped into motion. Hopefully he wouldn't keep Francis waiting now that he had a more efficient means of travel. He turned and was swept away into the breeze.

USUK

Though Alfred was eager for his lesson, he decided to practice flying on the way. Hovering had only taken a small time to master, but actually flying was an entirely different matter. It was unlike any movement Alfred had ever engaged in. Even the smallest twitches could send him completely off balance, half falling; half flying down towards the mountain passes. After several instances of flipping forward and dangling upside down from his boots, he began to get a notion of how to go about flying. The trick was to keep moving or have his feet directly under him. The birds-eye view did however help with his sense of direction. He found his own home in far less time than he would have walking, not that that meant anything much, given he never failed to become hopelessly lost down there.

He landed on his hillside with far more force than he intended. He flushed at the thought of what he must look like, stumbling along the crest of the mountain, arms flailing for balance. Pushing aside his embarrassment, he ran into the small building that was his home. He grabbed his lyre off the bed and departed, taking a flying leap into the air off the top step. The wings around his ankles flicked into action as he soared up.

_It's not really easy, but this is fun, _he thought as he felt the rush of biting air against his face and flapping against his jacket. He spiraled through the air, trying to see how fast he could go. Eventually he came to halt above the court of the gods. His stomach was rolling slightly. Perhaps spinning as fast as he could hadn't been the best of ideas. His body was quickly adjusting to the different movements flying required. Nothing had ever some so naturally to him. He sighed with contentment. _This is wonderful._ He laughed at the cold, at the mountain paths that would never trap him again. He laughed because no one was around to hear and to glare at him for making noise. No one was watching up here. He was free.

He looked down, his bearings still somewhat unsure. He finally spotted Francis's garden and the god waiting in its midst.

As Alfred landed Francis swept over to him, his blue cape fluttering behind him. His bright blond hair was pulled halfway up, the way Francis preferred it when about to engage in his specialty. He greeted Alfred fondly with a pat on the head, though Alfred was only a hair shorter. They began the lesson. Though Alfred was inconsistent at best, Francis would often close his eyes and listen to the imperfect chords and scales with a wistful smile. Alfred expected Francis to take the lyre from him to demonstrate some of the more difficult technique. However, the god kept his distance, explaining rather than showing. On a particularly difficult chord, Alfred stood, frustrated and shoved his lyre towards Francis.

"Just show me. I don't understand what you are saying. How are my fingers supposed to go?"

Francis flinched from the held out instrument. His blue eyes glittering with some old hurt that took Alfred aback.

"I wish, my boy, I wish."

Alfred stood in silence and waited for him to continue. Francis frowned; melancholy seeped from him. It was an expression Alfred was unused to seeing on the normally exuberant god. Alfred had turned to leave when a soft voice cut through.

"There is no music in Caelei, is there?"

Alfred turned, startled. Now that he thought about it, the only music he had ever really heard was down on visits to the mortal realm or Kiku's occasional humming. "I guess not. Don't you like it?" he asked.

Francis gave a distant chuckle. "Very much. Of all the arts, I would have to say it is my favorite."

Alfred let the silence hang. When no further response came from the distracted god, he sighed and crossed his arms across his chest. "If it's your favorite, why don't you play?"

The god shook his head, resting his eyes against his palms. "We cannot. The gods are cursed. If we so much as touch an instrument, it will decay, corrode in our very hands. It has been such for an age."

Alfred felt an odd stirring in his chest. It must have been a particular burden on the god of the arts. Alfred reached out and squeezed Francis' arm. The god looked up from his hands and a grim smile formed on his face. "Alas is my fate. But I vow to make a musician out of you, yet, though I will never play again. Now, I will explain this to you once more, this is how to play a harmonic scale."

Alfred arrived home several hours later, fingers raw and sore and his heart heavy with Francis' story. Arlya greeted him on the steps leading to his room. She immediately noticed his oddly thoughtful expression and held him to her. He let her run her fingers through his hair as he confided what had happened.

"It is true, the gods cannot play music," she continued, "and every instrument we touch will break, though it was not always so. Francis loved music, and he was talented. It rent his soul to have it taken away." Alfred nodded, he had heard as much from Francis.

"So why? What happened? How could gods be cursed?"

Arlya moved her caresses down to his shoulders, working out the kinks from sleeping up against the bed the night before. She continued in her same train of thought.

"It was heartbreaking really. Francis could play any instrument with intuitive ease. To have such a gift taken away— it hurt him more than he will admit."

Alfred made a noncommittal sound, observing how she brushed off his question. It wasn't particularly unusual for Alfred to be ignored in such a manner, but Arlya typically was straightforward with him. He let himself be steered into his room, half-listening as Arlya continued to speak of Francis. A thought sprung to his mind, a satisfying way to get a small revenge on the goddess who was so obviously ignoring his real questions. He said the most ridiculous idea he could think of.

"It was because of the Daemons, wasn't it? That the gods lost music?"

The goddess froze. She stared at the human with pale eyes Alfred couldn't read. Then with an unnerving smile she responded, "That seems to usually be the case, does it not? Now good night, my baby."

She swept out of his room, leaving Alfred with a stunned expression and even more questions.

* * *

**A/N: Massive character dump! Hopefully you like the intro to some canon characters. More to come. England will probably make his appearance within the next two chapters. Several of the characters have had major arc changes since this began (supporting characters should be much more interesting now), mostly due to my introduction to HetaOni (you can find it on YT). It's dark, its creepy and it screws with your brain. I highly recommend it. -queue end of shameless promotion-**

**Comments, constructive criticism, and requests (I'm still in need of some side plots) are love~  
**


	3. Arthur

**A/N: This was supposed to be up last weekend .-. Hopefully the length makes up for it. Chapter one was mostly set up and politics, so the plot gets rolling now. More canon characters make their debut, including everyone's favorite irate Englishman. It's still a bit OC heavy, I know, but this is the last chapter (for awhile at least) that they have a real major part in. **

**Thanks again for all your help, Z!**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Alfred sat amongst the ever-blooming flowers of Francis' garden; the god watched him with barely concealed affection. The boy had made much progress in the past weeks, despite having little natural talent. His lessons with Francis often ended in frustration for both of them as Francis would often grow inpatient with Alfred's slow grasp of the musical concepts that were still so clear in the god's mind. Alfred in turn would become frustrated and then make more mistakes. Fortunately, what the boy lacked in talent, he made up for in diligence. Every day, Alfred would return, eager to impress Francis with improved technique earned from the late nights he spent practicing.

It was one of those moments early on in the lessons before frustration sent them both into sullen silence. Alfred was comfortable with the notes he played on his lyre, but Francis had introduced a new challenge. Alfred stared at the tablet set before him, his eyes glancing between his fingers and the dots and lines scratched into the wax. Reading music turned out to be as much of a challenge as actually playing. His fingers slipped again, causing a dissonant twang. He sighed and leaned back into the flowers. If only music was as easy as flying, he thought. He had mastered that easily enough, and Gilbert had even given Alfred a few grudging lessons in combat on Pakram's insistence.

Alfred looked up at the clear evening skies above Caelei. He hardly noticed when Francis joined him, edging a little closer every few moments. They admired the darkening sky when whooshing sound followed by heavy footsteps startled the quiet moment. The tall figure of the sun god strode up to them, his red hair harsh against the sky. Alfred sat up, a chill spreading down his spine caused by the look on Pakram's face. His golden eyes were like the sun on a winter's morning, bright and cold.

"It has begun. Ivan attacks."

Alfred glanced between the two gods and wondered who Ivan was. Francis' face paled, but after a moment he nodded and rose to his feet, leaving Alfred on the ground. Pakram gazed down at the boy.

"Do you wish to be useful?"

There was no hesitation, Alfred nodded. Pakram stooped over and dragged the boy up by his shoulder. With a swirl of wind, they were gone.

They landed in the court of the gods. Silence hung, and Alfred suppressed a shudder at the weight in the air. Several of the gods were already present. Gilbert leaned against a pillar, stringing and restringing his bow while Daka paced, her wild black braids sweeping after her. Francis appeared through the pillars, a gold-hilted sword in hand and dressed in handsome leather mail. A concerned looking Kiku followed. Alfred hurried to meet them.

Kiku grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. "Do you know what you are getting into Alfred?" he asked.

"Vaguely."

"Do you even know who Ivan is?"

Alfred remained silent, refusing to meet Kiku's eyes. Kiku shook his short hair with a sigh. "He is a High Daemon. It is said his strength is only matched by his perversion."

Alfred gave a nervous laugh. "Perverted? Well, I spend enough time with Francis so that shouldn't really anything new." Kiku's frown remained.

"Alfred," he sighed, "You never even notice Francis' advances, whether they be on you or everyone else."

"But I know he's perverted."

"Only because I tell you."

Alfred pouted. "That's beside the point. Please, Kiku, don't worry so much. I'm the messenger. I won't be in any real fighting, let alone with a High Daemon. Besides, it's not as if I'm wandering in completely unarmed." He reached around his waist and unsheathed two daggers from his belt, the only weapons Arlya would allow him to carry.

Kiku took a knife. He ran his thumb over the curved steel and nodded with approval at the thin sliver of blood that appeared behind it.

"Tempered metal," he said, "that at least should help discourage them. No Daemon can withstand worked metal."

"They burn and blister on contact with it. Even if they're evil, that must hurt," he said as he slipped the knives back into his belt.

A hand dropped onto Alfred's shoulder. He turned to Francis, who led him and Kiku to the center where the rest of the gods who would be fighting were assembled.

There was no speech, no words of encouragement; the gods didn't need them. While Kiku made a last examination of their weapons, Francis leaned over and whispered in Alfred's ear.

"There's no need for nerves. Perhaps if you are hurt I will take pity and tend to you with utmost attention."

"Er— Alright. Thanks?" Francis' tone sent a wave of nausea through Alfred's gut.

With one last squeeze of Alfred's shoulder, Francis turned on his heel and swept them out into the mortal realm.

Alfred was swept back by the gale force winds and stinging swirls of snow. Blinded in the moonless night, he stumbled back until he collided with something rough and solid. He ran his hand over a wall of wrought iron and the patterns that twisted over it. A grating scream rent the air, chilling Alfred to the bone. Now that he was here, what was he supposed to do? Be a messenger, but what did that mean? He took a deep breath of icy air in a vain attempt to clear his trembling mind. He pushed off the ground and struggled against the wind.

Through the storm, Alfred spotted Pakram, holding off three sets of blazing violet eyes with great swings of a mace. With a loud crunching sound, Pakram made contact with something in the darkness and the eyes retreated. He spotted Alfred.

"You're no use to anyone just standing there. Make yourself useful."

Alfred gave him a blank stare. The god muttered under his breath in frustration. The eyes were nearing once more. He swung his mace in warning. "Find Francis. See how he is holding up." An order. Alfred knew what to do with those. He leapt off in the direction in which the god of love had vanished. Whines and snarls ripped the air behind him. Terror overtook him as he flew blindly through the trees. He could just make out movement from the corner of his eyes. Little lavender lights tailed him, keeping just out of sight. He hurtled out of the trees, and was knocked out of the air by the ferocious wind. He rolled when he hit the ground, the drifted snow soaking under his once-warm jacket. He shook. The screeches were approaching, mixed with the occasional shout of a god.

He felt it rather than saw it, the shadow that gathered over him, rising up for the kill. Alfred yelped and rolled back through snow, the spot where he was lying a moment before collapsed under some great weight. Adrenaline shot through his nerves. In a single movement he thrust himself back into the air and darted off into the swirling dark.

"Francis? Francis!" He shouted into the night, only to have his words blown back toward him by the blizzard. In the shadows just outside the city wall he caught sight of something that might have been the god. Metal flashed. It had to be Francis.

"Alfred!" came the reply. Alfred flew to his side. The god was panting, though he had no injuries thus far. He held his sword with both hands, knuckles white. He glared out into the tree line where violet eyes flashed and vanished, only to appear again from behind a tree.

"Alfred," said Francis, his voice broken, "Go— reinforcements, Gilbert— Too many for me. And light, some light?"

"Light?" said Alfred, his own voice an octave higher. "Right, light, and—?"

"Gilbert."

"Where is he?"

Francis pointed along the city wall. "Follow the wall."

Alfred nodded and flew off. He was skimming along the snow drifts when he was knocked against the outer wall. Pain ripped through his skull as it rammed against wood and iron. He fell to the snow, stunned. He tapped the back of his head. Dry. The collision would leave a painful lump, but nothing more serious.

Deep breathing came from above him. He turned over to meet two very large violet eyes boring into his. Eyes of a monster, luminescent, pupil-less, mad with rage and something else— Pain? He could make out a mass behind those eyes, though it seemed to twist in with the very shadows. A mouth opened with a hiss, bearing white fangs that gleamed even in the dim light.

Every part of Alfred felt heavy and unwilling to move. The eyes narrowed and the hiss deepened into a growl. The fangs leaped at Alfred, who had just enough energy left to raise an arm in front of his face. He shouted as the fangs sank into his arm. Panic flooded him once again. He flicked a dagger out of its sheath with his usable arm and buried it in the swirling mass somewhere behind the eyes and the teeth. It let out a wounded, feminine cry and reeled back, soaking Alfred with blood. Instinct took over. Alfred fled into the air and along the wall.

The faint sounds of cursing reached Alfred over the wind. He didn't think. It was all he could do to follow the voices through the night. He halted at the sounds of fighting. He saw the vauge forms of Gilbert and Daka, laughing and cursing as they slashed through the mass of Daemons. Daka wielded a sword, long and curved, the night posing no hinderance to her fighting abilites. Gilbert stood back, throwing out taunts and curses as he shot arrow after steel-tipped arrow when when he could make out the gleaming eyes.

Alfred darted to the shadow of Gilbert, nearly ramming him to the ground. With a loud curse Gilbert picked himself up and glared at Alfred.

"What is it mortal?"

"Francis… Too many— light, he wanted light!" he babbled.

Gilbert grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him.

"Snap out of it! What about Francis? Stop babbling!"

Alfred's eyes cleared a bit as he inhaled. "Francis needs backup, he's getting killed over there," he said, though his voice was still too high a pitch. "And he says he wants light. Where do we get light, Gilbert?"

Gilbert hand closed around Alfred's blood-soaked arm and the boy let out a yelp. He needed to stay out of this fight. "Ask the humans in the city for help," said Gilbert grudgingly. "I suppose they may have something useful to offer, even if they are just humans." He knocked Alfred upside his already ringing head. "From now on, stay out of this. Stay _up_ out of this," he said with a gesture to the sky. "You're nothing but a mortal messenger. Leave the fighting to the gods."

He turned into the wind and ran in Francis' direction. Daka's enraged howl from behind jolted him to action. The Daemons were closing in again, and Alfred sprang up and let the wind push him to the city battlements.

To his surprise, the walls were manned, a dark mass of soldiers lined up, arrows notched, though the combination of the wild storm and the dark night kept them from firing. Alfred approached a man who paced behind the archers, calling for calm and steady hands.

"Er… Excuse me? Is there anything we can do about the light?"

The man jumped and slipped on the wet stone.

"Who are you?" he asked. Alfred looked up to see the glints of several arrowheads pointed at him.

"N-no one really," he said, "just a messenger. The gods want light."

There was no hesitation. The man shoved himself up from the ground and the battlement broke into action. Bundles of sticks were gathered from the city below and soaked in oil. The man Alfred had spoken to stood beside one such mound and chanted to the sky, torch in hand: "He who gives light and life, let us aid you in your time of need! Let this light live, Pakram, God of the sun and all its fire, master of all that is bright in this world."

He dropped the flame. The fire spread impossibly fast and gave off a golden radiance into the snowy darkness. Fires sprung up from the three other corners of the city, casting the area into a yellow, flickering light. With a nod of thanks, Alfred took to the skies once more. He sought more orders from Pakram.

As he approached the familiar figure of the god, Alfred finally saw the monsters that had attacked him. It was odd, they looked almost soft in the golden light. Smoky shadows of the leopards and wolves that roamed the lonely mountainsides. Luminescent violet eyes glared from the swirling mass that were the creatures' faces. One let out a howl that twisted itself into a human scream. Another female. As it tilted its head back, Alfred caught sight of its white fangs and felt a twinge of pain shoot up his bloody arm. These creatures were evil. He spotted Pakram below, easily holding off the monsters. He swung his mace, red face determined in the firelight. The Daemons seemed to be retreating. They were retreating, crawling back into the wild forest and out of sight from the city walls.

Alfred let out a sigh of relief and fluttered down to Pakram. The god held out his arm in warning, halting Alfred mid-flight. Pakram's eyes never left the forest before him.

_Crack_.

Then laughter. It was sweet, an endearing laugh. Alfred felt the blood drain from his face as if sucked from his body.

From the trees emerged a figure. He strode forward to the light. "It was been too long since we have met, Pakram. You agree, hmm?"

The man matched Pakram in impressive size. He continued forward, moving with a grace uncanny for one so massive. A thick woolen overcoat hung down to his knees. Blood spattered the otherwise white material. Around his neck hung a scarf, thick and white. But what drew Alfred's attention was what came out behind the coat. A thick snow leopard tail was curled in delight, the tip twitching back and forth. His feet were also the enormous paws of the mountain feline, and explained the ease with which he moved. So this was a High Daemon.

He chuckled again and starred at the sun god with cold eyes. Alfred felt the air ring with a dissonance he could not explain. Pakram stood, an anchor of order amidst the horrible chaos the creature radiated. Alfred could not question it, the creature must be entirely insane.

"Yes, Ivan, much too long." He swung his mace at the High Daemon, who danced back out of his reach. The Daemon dashed forward. Pakram swung again, making contact with Ivan's side, but rather than crumple, the creature snarled and tore the mace from its owner's hand and cast it aside. They spun in and out, exchanging blows. Alfred began to panic as Pakram began to lose ground. He had never seen anyone come close to besting the sun god in combat, except for Daka, the goddess of war herself.

_Daka_, Alfred thought, _She'll be able to help. _

He sped through the storm to where the war goddess had been fighting. Nothing much had changed. Daka swept amongst the Daemons, overcome with bloodlust. Alfred called out from above and she spun out of the mass of writhing Daemons.

"He's here, isn't he?" she cried with delight. She took one last swipe at the Lower Daemons then bolted through the blizzard, her cutting laughter ringing off the trees.

Alfred battled the wind back to the battlements. The captain greeted him and listened as Alfred relayed his information. Soldiers knocked their arrows, waiting for the Daemon to come into range. Steel arrowheads glinted in the firelight and shadows danced along the wood and metal. Daka sang out a battle cry as she swung at Ivan, who was too surprised to dodge. The blade sank into shoulder and he roared in pain. Control forgotten, he lashed out at the gods, no discernable method to his wrath. Daka and Pakram saw their chance. They fought with the control of millennia of practice. Ivan was driven back toward the tree line.

Pakram stood back to admire their progress. He glared down at the rage-filled creature. "Pathetic," he whispered. The words had just slipped from his tongue when he was sent flying into Daka. Blood poured from his chest. Into the light stepped a young woman. Platinum blonde, her eyes a pale grey, she held herself aloof. She would have been the picture of beauty had it not been for the wolf's tail that swept behind her and the delicate paws that stood in the snow.

Daka jumped to her feet. "Natalia," she hissed.

The second High Daemon lifted her spear, the stone edge still dripping with Pakram's blood.

"You do not hurt my brother. You do not insult my brother."

Daka cackled. "Or what?"

Natalia flew at Daka in answer. The two were locked in combat, sword versus spear. Natalia fought without emotion. Her face blank as she twirled and spun in the blizzard and met Daka at every blow. Ivan had lifted himself back up and was once again engaged in combat with Pakram. Alfred watched with growing panic as the Daemons won back ground towards the city. Pakram turned up to the battlements.

"Alfred!" he shouted, "Find the others, we need them."

Alfred launched himself into the air. He found Francis and Gilbert fighting off a wave of Lower Daemons. He swooped in on top of them.

"No time," he said, "High Daemons— two of them."

The two gods nodded and sprinted off towards the main entrance of the city, Alfred following from the sky.

The addition of two more gods brought the fight back to a stalemate. Natalia fought both Francis and Gilbert with unconscious ease, though the other two gave no ground. Ivan was starting to show the strain of fighting Daka and Pakram. Alfred watched from above, feeling helpless. There wasn't anything he could do, either Natalia or Ivan would shred him in a moment. Not to mention all he had were his puny knives. Frustrated, he glanced around the night around he caught sight of movement on the other side of the wall. Violet gleamed from the trees as the Lower Daemons attacked the city's wall. Alfred spun towards the battlements.

"Daemons from the west!" he shouted. "The Daemons are attacking the west wall."

Soldiers looked from Alfred to their captain.

"What are you waiting for? Move!"

The soldiers flowed to the west wall. Arrows whirred through the air, and soon the all too human-sounding screams of the Daemons filled the air. Alfred looked on with pride. They were driving off the Daemons. The city would be safe. And this part, this part was safe because of him.

He drifted back towards the city entrance and his good feeling drained away. The snow was stained with blood. Pakram stood back, supporting a heaving Francis. Daka was forward, her sword blade pressed into Ivan's white skin. Across from her stood Natalia. She held an unconscious Gilbert by the hair, her spear across his throat.

"Take your hands off my brother," Natalia whispered, face blank but eyes smoldering.

"Then release Gilbert."

The oppressive silence was broken by Ivan's low giggle. He winced as the steel blade pressed deeper into his skin.

"It seems we have reached an impasse. Let me go, and Gilbert dies; let Gilbert go, and I die. Let neither of us go, and we stay here."

Daka's face contorted. "Kill Gilbert and you will both die. We outnumber you, and our fellow gods are only a second away."

Ivan seemed to consider her words. "I believe you have a point," he conceded. "Release us, and we will go and leave your god behind."

"Brother!"

"Hush, Natalia, it is good to know when it is pointless to continue fighting. What do you say?"

"I say never trust a Daemon," said Daka.

Pakram strode up to Ivan. "Do you swear to leave right when we release you, and to leave Gilbert behind, unharmed?"

"I do."

Pakram flicked out a knife from his belt. He drew it across Ivan's hand. Ignoring the Daemon's hiss of pain at the metal, he did the same to his own hand. He grasped Ivan's bleeding hand to his own.

"Repeat your oath."

"I swear to leave as soon as you release me, and to leave the god unharmed."

"And Natalia?"

"She will follow."

"You will die if she doesn't."

Natalia's eyes widened.

"Broth—"

"She will follow."

"Release him."

Daka glared at Pakram before kicking the Daemon away. Natalia let Gilbert drop to the snow.

Ivan stood and rubbed the line of blisters along his neck. He let out his low chuckle.

"Don't think you have won, God." His tail swished behind him as a grin spread across his face. "Come, Natalia." They vanished into the trees.

Alfred touched down next to Francis, who was still leaning against the city wall.

"We did it, didn't we? We're heroes."

"That is a little romantic, even for you, Alfred."

"Aren't you the god of love? Shouldn't you like romance?"

"Oh, but I do. Shall I show you how much I like it when we return home?"

He gave Francis an empty stare.

"What do you mean?"

Francis sighed. The boy was hopeless, and he was too tired.

"Francis, we are leaving," Pakram said. Pushing up from the wall, the god clasped Alfred's shoulder. They turned into the wind and were gone.

Alfred collapsed as his feet touched down in the court of the gods. The adrenaline had ebbed from his system leaving him exhausted and shaking. Beside him, Francis let out his heavy sigh before vanishing to his home. The cold of the marble floor seeped into his already snow-soaked clothing, but he had no will to move. He lay there, face pressed into the floor, tracing random patterns with his finger, when he felt himself scooped up and cradled. It was uncomfortable. He didn't fit: his legs stuck out too far and his neck was crushed forward by the forearm that held it.

"Come, my baby. It's time to go home."

Arlya's hold tighten as she whisked them to Alfred's room. She sat on his bed without letting go. It would have been comforting if he were still a child and her skin wasn't so cold. Alfred whined and struggled.

"Shh…" she whispered and eased him out of his jacket. She ran her chilly fingers through his hair. Alfred felt himself begin to relax as she shifted into an archaic language, the one Francis was still so partial to. His still erratic breathing deepened as he fell against his pillows. Arlya stripped the already sleeping human of the remainder of his damp clothing and tucked a quilt around his bare shoulders.

With a final kiss on his forehead, she slipped out into the moonlight.

Alfred bolted awake, shivering and soaked in a cold sweat. Images of the shadowy Daemons danced in his eyes and it was several moments before he realized that he was safe, safe and far away from any Daemon. He stared up and the white marble, trying to return to some semblance of calm. It was no use. His heart still drummed against his ribs and the shadows in the moonlight made faces at him from the corners of his eyes. He turned over, groping for a candle, when his hand fell on polished wood.

Alfred lifted his lyre and placed it on his lap. His fingers automatically found their position, even in the half-light. He plucked a few notes before settling into a simple ballad Francis had taught him. His music drew all of his concentration and let him leave behind the shadows and the violet eyes that Alfred saw whenever he closed his own. Alfred didn't find the story the ballad told all that interesting. Something about war and star-crossed lovers. His musings were interrupted by a cool hand on his shoulder. He looked up Arlya's pale face.

"I'm glad you're awake; I was beginning to worry."

Alfred frowned. It was still the middle of the night, wasn't it? "How long have I been asleep?"

"You came back a night ago. It's almost morning now."

"How are the others?"

Arlya's smile faltered. "Pakram and Daka are fine. Francis and Gilbert haven't woken yet."

Alfred yelped and leaped out of his bed, burrowing under it for a clean tunic and breeches.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Alfred glanced up from his boots.

"Well, I have to check on them, don't I? What it they need something?"

Arlya chuckled and gazed at Alfred with soft eyes. She still saw the little boy who grasped her robes, nervous around the other gods. Part of her failed to exchange the smock he wore then for the breeches and boots we wore now. He was still a baby, her baby.

Alfred failed to notice her attentions. He slung the pouch that contained his lyre over his shoulder, ran out into the morning sunlight, jumping into the air off the top step.

He made for Gilbert's home first, as he had suffered worse wounds. He touched down outside the cave Gilbert called home.

It was bright and open inside. The distinct smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, though there was no fire lit. The walls of the cave had natural crevices, many of which were filled with bows of various sizes and strengths, or spears, or the occasional animal pelt. Gilbert slept on a small bed off to the side. Two gods stood next to him, Heracles and a god Alfred had little contact with. He was Vahnic, the god of the household. He was tall, like the other gods, however he was rough and grey where the others were youthful. He glanced up as Alfred approached, eyes narrowing with disgust, and proceeded to ignore his presence.

Heracles was more welcoming. He beckoned the human over and updated him on the injured god's condition.

"He will be unconscious for quite some time. Natalia is not gentle with her enemies."

Alfred worried the inside of his lip. "It's weird," he said, "I've never seen a god like this before. He's a _god_. Shouldn't he be ready to fight again, I don't know… immediately?"

Heracles gave Alfred one of his unnerving, blank stares. "Yes, he is a god. That is the problem. We are not like you humans, bound to such a tight schedule of life and death, injury and recovery. Your concept of time means nothing to a god, and it is time that heals your wounds isn't it?"

"I guess so."

"Then gods, who exist along different plain of time, cannot be expected to conform."

"He'll be alright, won't he?"

"Sure. He is a god after all."

Alfred shook his head. A conversation with Heracles always seemed to land Alfred with no answers and a headache. He wondered how Kiku could stand it.

"Is there anything I can get for you or Gilbert?" he asked.

"Quiet, just some quiet," came the growling voice of Vahnic. Alfred gulped as the god glared at him.

"I'll go check on Francis."

Heracles seemed to have forgotten Alfred's existence. He gazed at the cave wall, lost in thought.

Alfred arrived in Francis' gardens a little while later. He ran up the hill and entered the god's open temple of a home. The pillars were silhouetted by the early morning glow. Francis laid sprawled on an enormous, gold-footed bed. White sheets rested down around his waist, a fact which Alfred was thankful for. Francis' top half was nude, and he could only imagine that held true for the rest of him.

There was nothing he could do for the sleeping god, so Alfred turned to leave. He was stopped when an elegant figure swept in. Alfred froze. The goddess glittered in the morning light as the sun reflected off the gems in her embroidered skirt and blouse. Gold hoops hung from her ears, half hidden by her loose, light brown hair. Her golden eyes twinkled at the sight of Alfred and she strode up to him. He gulped. Arlya made her opinion of the goddess clear: she was one to avoid, along with her twin sister.

"So sweet of you, Alfred, to check up on my dear Francis."

Alfred opened his mouth, closed it, and finally managed to say, "Good morning, Paan. I should go; Arlya—"

Paan threw back her head and laughed, her garments clinking. "What has that stuffy old woman said about me this time? You spend time with Francis, and he's worse than me. Come, sit, we'll wait for him to wake."

She took Alfred's shoulder and drove him back to Francis' bed. She ran to the side of the room, grabbed a table, two chairs and dragged them over to the bedside. She pointed for Alfred to sit. She pulled a deck of cards out of what seemed to be thin air, and laughed at Alfred's open-mouthed amazement.

"So I hear you were a big hero in the battle at the Capitol. Really saved Pakram, not that he'll ever admit it."

A flush spread across Alfred's face. Modesty was something that never occurred to him. "I was pretty great. Pakram wasn't the only one I helped, Francis—"

"Was this while or after your little panic attack?" she asked with an innocent smile that held for a mere second before breaking into a smirk.

Alfred sputtered while Paan dealt out the deck. He picked up his cards and flipped them over to look at his hand, only to have them smacked down by the goddess.

"No cheating."

"What are the rules?"

"Play, and you'll learn."

She flipped a single card up from her side of the deck then looked at Alfred expectantly.

Late in the afternoon, Francis woke to yelling. Immediately he turned and reached for a sword that was no longer at his side, thoughts full of Daemons, particularly on with the laugh of a child and the brutality of the mountains themselves. He blinked over to the side of his bed where the yelling came from. Alfred and Paan stood on opposite side of his table, a hand each on a pile of cards in the center.

"Their mine! My hand is completely on it; I slapped first!" shouted Alfred.

"No you didn't, you little liar. They're mine! My pinky is under your hand."

"Only because you shoved it there after I slapped!"

Francis cleared his throat. Two faces looked at him and immediately lit up.

"Really, Alfred, you should never play anything with Paan. She cheats."

The goddess smiled, but denied nothing.

"How are you, Francis? Do you need — anything you want?"

"Quiet, boy, you're interrupting yourself, though—"

"Come off it Francis," Paan said. "Even if he knew what you were talking about, he wouldn't be interested."

Alfred stared between the two of them, trying to find the implied meaning. He failed.

"Then perhaps you, my dear goddess?"

Paan cut him off with a flick of her wrist. "I've barely had anything to drink yet today, let alone enough for you to tempt me."

"You wound me, Paan."

"I try."

Their topic of conversation finally dawned on Alfred. His whole face ignited, a fate inevitable to one raise by Arlya.

"Y-you're right, Paan, you're pinky was there all along. You win. I've got to go… do stuff." With that, he turned and fled from the gods and their scary conversations. He wove through the air, desperately willing the chilly air to remove the blood from his face.

The next weeks soon fell into routine. Gilbert woke up for the first time a few days after Alfred, though he was still bedridden. The same could be said for Francis, though Alfred wasn't sure if he was really as pitiable as he made himself seem or if he was milking the attention for all it was worth. Alfred was leaning towards the latter. Though, to be fair, Francis did collapse from exhaustion several times.

Arlya and Pakram kept watch on the mortal realm, though the Daemons also seemed to be lying low. Alfred spent most of his time running errands or playing games with Francis and Paan, much to Arlya's displeasure. In the evenings Arlya would try to talk him out of going back the next day, insisting that he stayed away from the festive goddess. She didn't try to veil her hostility towards the goddess, insisting that she was "loose" and a bad influence, whatever that meant. Alfred hated seeing her upset, so he began to leave Paan out of his descriptions of his day.

The day started according to routine: Alfred woke and dragged himself out of bed and into the chilly air. He slung his lyre across his back and took off for Francis' garden. The god was absent, though Paan waited. She strode up to him, a look of concern on her face.

"Where's Francis?"

Paan shook her head with uncharacteristic seriousness. "He hasn't woken up today. No matter what I try, he won't wake."

Alfred's eyes widened. "What? Is there anything I can do?"

Something flashed in in Paan's dark eyes, though her voice still conveyed her concern.

"Perhaps, there is supposed to be a fruit that grows only in the highest skies of Caelei. It is rumoured to heal any minor sickness." The goddess sighed, her eyes tearing up. "But it is up in the sky, I can't retrieve it."

Alfred brightened and puffed out his chest. "I can get it!" he said. "Where in the sky is it exactly?"

"Er… Up, high, you'll see it when you get far enough away from the ground."

"Are you sure? Won't I fall into the mortal realm if I get too far away?"

Paan flicked her wrist. "Don't be foolish, you'll find it before that happens."

Alfred nodded and jumped into the air. He was going to be Francis' hero. As he zoomed off into the cloudless sky, the goddess on the ground laughed.

"He really is as gullible as they say," she said to herself.

"Paan?" She whipped around, face to face with Francis. His eyes narrowed.

"Pacarni," he spat. "Whatever rumors, half-truths, or lies you brought with you, please, take them and leave."

A feral smirk spread across the goddess's face. "But you have so much fun with that boy and my dear twin sister. Yet you fail to invite the beloved Pacarni, the life of the party herself. I'm wounded, not to mention bored. I just made things interesting, that's all. That human is in for a surprise."

Francis grabbed the goddess's shoulder. "What did you tell Alfred? Where is he?"

Pacarni spun out of Francis' grip and vanished with a final cackle.

Alfred wiped his glasses against his tunic. A mysterious sky-fruit shouldn't be this hard to find. The air was bright and clear, and there was no where it could be hidden. With a sigh, he flew higher. The air was thin and Alfred was beginning to feel lightheaded. It must be close, just a bit farther up.

The tips of his fingers tingled. Maybe he should rest and try again in a moment. He shook his head to clear it. He couldn't just hover, Francis needed him and some sky-fruit. He shot upwards, only to meet a strange resistance. There was nothing in the sky, but Alfred felt a presence weighing on his mind. He tried to fall back from the barrier, but as he fell, he felt the presence run over his mind and his skin like a thin fall of water.

Alfred gasped, the air was cold and heavy with rain. He tumbled through the air, finally managing to regain control just above the ground. He touched down onto springing turf. He glanced up. The sky was a monotonous, stormy grey. Alfred shuddered. He was in the mortal realm, a part he had never visited before. Tendrils of mist curled over the rolling landscape, fusing and parting as if alive. Alfred stood on top of a low hill, looking out at his vivid green surroundings. He could see a stream in the distance, winding by a tangled copse of trees. Many of the surrounding hills were crumbling, entire sides eaten away to dirt and bare boulders.

Alfred glanced around with the eerie feeling that he was being watched. He set off on foot, tired of flying. He picked his way down the slope, which was filled with odd little dips and breaks that seemed created specifically for tripping him. He wouldn't be able to get back to Caelei on his own. Whenever she took him to the mortal realm, Arlya insisted on trying to teach him to "feel for Caelei." No matter how he tried, he never found what Arlya called the "sense of home."

He set about pondering what had happened to land him out here, so far from any civilization. His thoughts focused on why Paan had tricked him out of Caelei. He worried the inside of his cheek, lost in his musing and failed to notice the shadows following him through the mists.

When he reached the base of the hill, a small stone bounced by, startling Alfred from his thoughts. He spun around, groping for a dagger that was not there. On the hillside above him were two Daemons, both as tall as Alfred at the shoulder. They appeared as large canines, long-shouted with small triangular ears that arched back into a thin, almost graceful body, held up by thin legs. A whip-like tail lashed behind them. Like their mountain kin, they seemed to have no solid form: shadows swirled off of them like dust. But what transfixed Alfred were the eyes. Pupil-less, shining emerald eyes.

One raised its shadowy hackles, baring fangs that made Alfred's just-healed arm twinge. The other tilted its head back and let loose a shriek that was all too human. They did not attack, but hung back, snuffling and wary. A mass of darkness appeared at the peak of the hill. Alfred was rooted to the spot, his mind nothing but blank white fear. He stared up as a third Daemon approached. It was slightly larger than the two at the base of the hill, but as it descended, Alfred felt its presence press on him, almost a physical force. It walked through the middle of the two other Daemon's and approached Alfred. It glared at him with wild green eyes. It flicked it's head back to the others, growling. They replied with their own growls, heads flicking from side to side as if they were confused.

Wind ripped through over land, knocking Alfred from his feet. Shielded his face from the shower of pebbles and dirt that tore over him. The wind dropped as quickly as it came.

Alfred lowered his arms and looked up. Where the Daemon had stood seconds before was a man who appeared to be just older than Alfred. A cloak was pinned around his shoulders, hood thrown back to reveal straw-colored hair that refused to lay flat. Under the cloak, he wore a white tunic and loose brown breeches, much like Alfred's.

Alfred stared up at his hard green eyes, framed by enormous, dark eyebrows. They stared back, cold and filled with hatred. He took a step forward, moving with uncanny grace across the uneven ground. Alfred's eyes flicked down. A thick, sweeping fox tail flicked from side to side behind russet paws that ran up under the hem of the his breeches.

"You… You're a Daemon, a H-high Daemon," Alfred stuttered.

"I'm aware of that." His voice carried an unfamiliar accent. His words were rounded and his voice was softer than he expected. "But what are you?" He yanked Alfred to his feet and continued to glare at him.

"Human?" Alfred offered.

"You feel like _them_. You have the touch of the gods on you." The Daemon stepped around Alfred, examining him. His attention was drawn to Alfred's winged boots. He bristled.

Alfred stumbled back. "A gift! They're a gift! I'm human!"

The Daemon stepped back and crossed his arms under his cloak. "So it seems. Very well, what are you doing in my moors?"

"You're moors? Who gave you ownership?"

A look of genuine confusion flashed across the Daemon's eyes, replaced an instant later with renewed anger.

"I'll ignore your impertinence, human, and give you one more chance to answer. What are you doing here?"

Alfred felt his fear ebb away, replaced by his own temper. "Or what?" he said, hands balling into fists. "You're just like Ivan and Natalia. You'll threaten and hurt anyone just to get your own selfish way." He was working himself into a tantrum. He pointed straight at the Daemon's face. "You're completely evil!"

If the Daemon had been angry earlier, it was nothing compared to his fury now. Alfred bit his lip, trying to keep from flinching under the weight of the Daemon's glare.

"Since you are… so convinced — because of course there could be no other explanation for our actions — I will not waste my time trying to convince you otherwise." He turned from Alfred, back to his Lower Daemons.

"Kill him."

* * *

**A/N: Cliffie much? **

**Props to anyone who can guess what the card game was. **

**Once again, constructive criticism, encouragement, questions, suggestions, edits, or comments in general are LOVE. I've got a couple of side plots (or one) figured out, but I'd love to hear any requests for pairings or characters that you want to see (or don't want to see). **

**Expect the next chapter (albeit shorter than this one) this weekend.  
**


	4. The Chase

**A/N: Monday (it's still Monday for twenty minutes!) is still the weekend, isn't it? -shot- Oh, and the game Al and Paan were playing last chapter was Egyptian Ratscrew (in my head, though most of your guesses could be true), which is pretty much a more complex version of Slapjack or Snap. I'll still make an effort to update this once a week, but I'm getting really busy now. **

**Edit: I forgot to save this document a final time last night and uploaded the wrong version . -facepalm- This is the RIGHT version.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Chapter Three

"Kill him."

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to reach Alfred. The Daemons approached him, growls in their throats and their green eyes glowing. A shock shot through Alfred, spurring him into motion. As he turned to flee, the Daemons raced forward.

Alfred had a bit of a head start, but the heavy thud of paws behind him grew closer. He couldn't risk a glance back, but a warm huff of breath on his neck was enough.

The ground turned broken and rough under Alfred's feet as he ran along the lower side of the hill. Broken boulders littered the torn soil. Spotting his chance, Alfred leapt at one. His wings only managed to lift him enough to land on top of the boulder, but it was enough. As one of the Daemons pounced at him, he pushed off into the air.

The Daemons raced into the air after him. Alfred swung to the side, spinning out of the path of the shadowy masses. They crashed back down to earth. He chanced a glance behind, only to be met with those horrible fangs leaping up after him. Their heavy landing seemed to have had no impact on their jumping skills.

Alfred lurched forward, hugging the rolling hills. He matched the Daemons' pace, as they gained no ground. One threw back its head and gave a strangled sounding scream. The sounds chilled Alfred's blood and sent uncomfortable twinges over his just-healed arm. He forced himself away from the sound, over the crest of a hill when the sound came again, this time from the front. Three more black hounds waited on the crest of the hill, hackles raised, dusty shadows swirling around them.

Alfred panicked. He banked hard, skidding face first along the ground. Ignoring the new bloody taste along his lip, he scrambled to his feet and sprang into the air. He hovered, glancing from side to side. He was surrounded. Heavy drops of rain landed on his head. The storm was breaking. There was no way out.

As the Daemons approached, Alfred tried to calm his panicking mind. The terror running through him wasn't letting him think straight, just like in his first battle. There had to be some way out; there was no way he was going to die here.

Alfred's eyes widened as a Daemon leapt at him. He shot straight up, into the sky. He mentally kicked himself.

"Stay _up_ out of it, Alfred, you moron!" he said, remembering Gilbert's advice. The Daemons glared up through the rain, their eyes glowing even in the fading light. They might be able to jump, but they couldn't fly. Alfred sighed in relief. He was safe, out of reach.

He wiped some water off his glasses, and a small smirk graced his face. The Daemons waited below. They weren't so scary, not from up here. He drifted down closer. A Daemon crouched, then pounced up at Alfred who spun just out of reach. He let out a loud laugh.

"Poor Daemons can't catch the little human?" he taunted. Another leapt for him. Alfred yelped and shot upwards. Once his heart settled, he drifted back down.

"That the best you can do? How terrifying, the big bad Daemons—"

His voice was cut off by five screams. Alfred covered his ears against them, knees curling into his chest. When it was over, he looked down through the rain. The five Daemons were there, though they sat, gazing up at Alfred with what appeared to be only mild interest.

Alfred didn't hear anything through the rain, but one minute he was hovering, unharmed if unnerved above the hills, the next, he was hurtling through the rain towards the ground. He shoved his feet under him, slowing his momentum until he was in control again, just above the ground. He looked up. Within the dark clouds, another figure moved with the same swirling movements as the other Daemons. He had no time to examine it further as a growl from below caught his attention. The five hound Daemons raced towards him.

Alfred turned and shot away. The rain was falling harder and Alfred was having trouble seeing. His lungs burned and he felt fatigue slip into his limbs. A gust from above snapped him back to attention. He swung to the side as glittering talons closed around the space where Alfred had been. However, he was not quick enough to miss the heavy wing that slammed down on top of him.

Somehow Alfred managed to stay airborne. He looked up at his attacker. It had the general shape of a hawk, thin body and long wings, with a Daemon's size and swirling form. The same pupil-less, green eyes caught his and it cried out, a mix between hawk and human.

It dove after Alfred. His mind could focus on nothing but flight. He spun and weaved, avoiding the worst of the hawk Daemon's assault. He was fading fast. The shadows and little green lights danced across the corners of his eyes. He occasionally sank back towards the earth, only to be forced to shoot up again by the leaping jaws of the hound Daemons.

His exhausted body couldn't support him anymore. Once again he fell towards the green hills, through the rain, and the violent wind, and the cries of Daemons. He opened his eyes to see the Daemons below hesitate. They had come to the crest of a hill, but the other side dropped of into a cliff. It's face was broken, crevices running up and down, some looking deep enough to shelter in.

He managed to right himself again, though hovering in place took up a great deal of concentration. The Daemons on the ridge anticipated his plan and howled a warning to their kin in the sky. It swooped down, and blocked the cliff face from Alfred. He tried to swerve around it, but it cut him off at every turn, lashing out with its talons.

Alfred halted, hanging in the air. He was out of ideas. Relative safety was in sight and out of reach. Maybe it would be easier just to wait until the Daemon lunged at him, ending it all. He brushed the water off his glasses.

"No," he whispered to himself. "Not yet. It's so close. Just one last thing to get past."

The Daemon attacked. Alfred's blue eyes steeled themselves in the dim light. He let himself drop out from under the creature, who, carried by its own momentum, couldn't twist to finish off Alfred.

He seized his chance. With a final burst of energy, he launched himself at the cliff face. He located a crevice and prayed it was deep enough to offer some protection. He was lucky. He slammed himself through the opening and into a hollow behind it just as the Daemon collided with the rock. It flew back, shrieking and tore at the entrance of the hollow with its claws and beak.

Alfred shoved himself as far back as he could get, muscles burning with the effort. He shook as the adrenaline ebbed out of his system. He didn't have his jacket, just his tunic which was now dripping with the cold rain. He drew his knees up to his chest, trying to block out the grating sound of claw against stone and occasional scream of frustration from the Daemon.

"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" He found talking to himself comforting, a familiar sound in all the chaos.

He felt something hard press into his back. He reached around and unslung the satchel that contained his lyre. Francis had promised to teach him a new piece that day. Momentarily forgetting the Daemon, he drew it out, images of a fractured instrument flashing through his mind. To his amazement, it was, for the most part, unharmed. A bit damp where the oil skin had ripped and battered around the edges, but it was still in fine working condition. A loud crack sounded through the small hollow. The Daemon was making progress. Alfred shuddered against the nightmarish sound.

There was no reason why he shouldn't play. The Daemon knew where he was already. He rubbed he damp face with the back of his hand. He was cold, and dripping, and still his heart thudded against his chest. It wasn't too much to ask for a bit of comfort, was it?

His fingers found their places. They began to move in Alfred's favorite ballad, about a hero who saved a princess from the clutches of an evil king. It was romantic, and though the key had a minor lit to it, it was hopeful, especially the parts detailing the hero's bravery. A small smile shown across Alfred's face as his fingers gain confidence. There was still the odd twang of a missed note, but the music filled the small hollow.

It was only when he finished that Alfred realized the screams of the Daemon's had silenced. He let the sound fade and listened. Wing beats. It was still out there. But why wasn't it attacking?

Alfred forced himself to his feet. Still clutching his lyre, he peeked out of the crevice. The Daemon hovered there, but something was different about it. Its form wasn't as smoky as before and its glowing eyes were wide with curiosity. Even as Alfred emerged, it made no move to attack, just waited.

Alfred plucked a few strings of his lyre. The Daemon's eyes widened as it drifted a bit closer.

"You like this?" Alfred asked.

The Daemon made no response, but Alfred took its stillness as confirmation. He settled himself on the ledge and started the chords of another lay. He didn't try to sing along to the music; it took all his concentration just to stop his fingers from slipping. He leaned back against the broken stone, beginning to relax. The overhang of the cliff shielded him from most of the rain.

He played well into the night. The Daemon never once moved from its position. Alfred has exhausted most of his musical knowledge when it jolted from its position. It turned to the top of the cliff and chirped in recognition.

"What are you doing?" The smooth voice sent a cold tingle of fear down Alfred's spine. "Why haven't you returned? Is it that hard to kill a pathetic human?"

The Daemon trilled up to the high Daemon, its birdlike voice a stark contrast to its human scream.

Pride stirred in Alfred's chest. "You think I'd go down that easily?" He shouted before he knew what he was doing.

A dark figure leapt down the cliff and landed right in front of Alfred. His cloak was pulled up over his head. He turned to the Daemon hovering in the air behind him.

"Explain yourself! Why isn't he dead?"

The Daemon chirped and whistled. The High Daemon turned back to Alfred and pushed back his hood, flicking drops of water everywhere. His busy eyebrows tugged into a frown above his confused eyes.

"She's not making any sense. What did you do to her?" he said and crouched down, grabbing Alfred's tunic and glaring at him directly in the eyes.

"I played for it—her. That's all, I swear!"

"Played?"

Alfred drew his thumb across the strings of his lyre. "Yeah. I think she likes it."

Most of the hostility drained out of the High Daemon's eyes. He still frowned but he stared at Alfred as if seeing him for the first time.

"Play," he commanded.

"What?"

"Play, and I'll let you live."

"Not much of a choi—"

"I could kill you now if you prefer."

Alfred shut up and hesitantly began his favorite ballad again. He risked a glance up at the Daemon, startled when he saw a small half-smile appear. The melody faded into the night. Alfred looked at the Daemon, waiting for a response.

"You're not all that good, are you?"

Alfred flushed. He opened his mouth to retort when the Daemon cut him off.

"But I enjoyed it. I want you to come play for me again."

_Wait, What?_ Alfred could only stare with wide eyes and sputter.

The Daemon returned to his scowl. "Are you really as thick as you look? You will come back to play for me." He looked out at the rain, then settled into a sitting position. "Once a fortnight." He nodded to himself.

"And if I don't?"

The Daemon considered this. "I'll find you."

"If you can't?"

"I will. You will come." He paused. "Won't you?"

It was crazy, stupid to enter into such an agreement. Arlya would be angry. All of the gods would be angry. But Alfred saw his own loneliness reflected in those eyes, and something reckless bubbled up in him. _Besides_, he rationalized,_ it's not as if I have much of a choice. _

"Alright. I'll come," he said.

"Good." The small smile returned to the Daemon's face. "Swear on it."

He picked up a sharp stone from the floor and slashed it across his own hand and gestured for Alfred's.

Alfred gulped then held out his hand. He winced as the stone slashed his palm. The Daemon clasped them together.

"Do you swear to return once a fortnight to play your music for me?"

"I do."

"Then I swear to let you leave here as you are."

The Daemon released Alfred. "Play some more."

Alfred's hands ran over the strings, picking out melodies against the rain. His entire attention occupied, he didn't notice as the Daemon leaned in, gazing at Alfred with inscrutable eyes.

An hour passed, then another. Alfred's head nodded once, twice as exhaustion began to overcome him.

"You can stop. Sleep."

Alfred could only nod. He curled his knees into his chest and began to doze off. Sleep was almost upon him when he realized he lacked a vital piece of information.

"What should I call you?" he asked.

"Come again?"

"Call you? I can't just call you Mr. Daemon."

"Arthur."

"What?"

"Arthur. You may call me Arthur."

Alfred frowned. He hadn't expected such an ordinary name.

"Alright, Arthur. I'm Alfred."

"A pleasure, I'm sure."

Alfred was already asleep. Arthur frowned at him, then returned to staring out at the rain, already missing the clumsy music.

The grey morning light woke Alfred. He glanced around the hollow to find that he was alone.

"Did… Did that really happen?" A glance at his hand told him all he needed to know. The slash across his palm was just scabbed over. The events in his memory had most certainly taken place.

He stepped out into the morning light and tried to stretch out his stiff body. The land below the cliff was covered in a thick fog and the sky was just as overcast despite the heavy rain the day before. The whole landscape looked soft, as if covered by a thick cotton blanket. He flew up to the top of the cliff and sat down, wondering how he would find his way home. He wanted his bed and he wanted to be warm.

He let out a sigh, wondering if he would get rained on again. The wind was light, holding none of the violence of last night. He tilted his head back to watch the clouds when he heard it: a distant shout over the mists calling his name.

"Alfred!" He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the voice.

"I'm here! Over here!"

Arlya appeared in the mists. Alfred ran up to her and threw his arms around her. She stroked his damp hair and took a careful inventory of his injuries. She knew who had done this to her boy, and he would pay.

"Come, my baby, let's go home."

Alfred could only nod as he was whisked away.

All the gods were gathered in the summit of Caelei save one, who was serving out a punishment down in the mortal realm. She was not missed.

"Is that everything, Arlya?" asked Parkram.

"Yes. He told me everything. His bargain with the Daemon is particularly concerning."

"How often must he go down? Once a fortnight?"

"That is correct."

The sun god frowned at his wife. The news was concerning. The new Daemon War was breaking and now one of his vulnerable pawns had sworn in blood to meet with one of their most powerful enemies on a frequent basis.

"There is nothing we can do to lift it?" he asked.

"Nothing I have tried has been able to lift it. But there is one way, one drastic measure that could free him."

Francis interrupted her, his voice unusually high. Before she could state her proposal, he said, "Maybe it is a good thing this has happened. Perhaps Alfred can gain us some information of the Daemons. Perhaps we should tell him the prophecy?"

A general murmuring broke out. Finally a sandpaper voice broke through.

"I do not believe we should," said Circalous. "The prophecy is coming true without his knowledge of it. I see no reason to tell him."

Francis shrugged at the prophet god. "You know best."

The court turned to other matters of the mortal realm before Arlya brought up Alfred again.

"As I have said, there is one way to release Alfred from his oath."

Pakram eyed her, frowning. "What do you propose?"

"We make him on of us. A god."

The court exploded. Gods jumped to their feet, all shouting at once.

"Make a human a god? That's never happened before!"

"There's a first time for everything. He could be useful."

"I will not lower myself among humans!"

"We're not lowering ourselves. We're raising him."

"Silence!" shouted Pakram. "Every idea brought to this court must be given fair evaluation. Arlya, explain."

The Goddess stood and strode to the center of the ring of thrones.

"If we grant him godhood, Alfred's humanity, his human essence will die. This is the part of him his oath is bound to. Lose of humanity, lose of obligation. Not to mention the other benefits. Alfred has proved his worth. But he is still a human, not only are humans short-lived but they are fragile. One misplaced swipe and he'd be lost to us. He heals faster than us; he was up in a day of the attack on the mining town while Francis and Gilbert are still not fully recovered, but a god will not die. Without this protection, he will wither before the war even truly begins. He must be protected, and godhood will grant him that."

A couple of gods nodded in agreement.

Pakram looked around. "Any other views?"

This time it was Gilbert who stood. "Alfred is useful, no one will deny that. But what Arlya fails to realize is that he is not irreplaceable. There are other humans who exist now, and who will exist in the future who could easily be more useful than he is. Godhood is no light option, Arlya. What if something goes wrong with him? As you said, a god can't be killed! Besides, Alfred is too much of a child to consider it at this point. I want to win this war as much as you, but the risks of raising a human to godhood are too great. He may not even survive the process."

Paan didn't even bother leaving her chair. "I'm for it," she said. "Alfred is fun. I'd like to keep him around. Plus, what's life without some risk?"

"Is your enjoyment all you think about?" accused Circalous. "He is here for one purpose, to destroy the Daemons. So far, all has been going along with the prophecy. Keep him as he is."

The room descended back into shouts and wild gestures. Finally Pakram held out his hand to silence them all.

"We will vote on it."

"Without Pacarni?" asked Paan.

Most of the gods shrugged. Waiting for Pacarni to return would take too long.

"Around in a circle then," said Pakram. "I am for it. Arlya?"

"For."

"Heracles?"

"For."

"Gilbert?"

"Against."

"Daka?"

The war goddess spat, "Against."

"Vahnic?"

"Against."

"Paan?"

She considered it for a few moments. "For."

"Circalous?"

"Against."

"We have reached a tie. Francis?"

All eyes turned to the god of love. He flicked imaginary dust from his clothes and shifted from foot to foot.

"Francis?" said Arlya. "He's your friend. You would hate to lose him, wouldn't you?"

Francis closed his eyes. He saw his young human friend; yes he wanted him to stay safe. But he saw Alfred with his lyre. Francis couldn't lose the music again. He scuffed his boot against the floor. "Against." Arlya stared at him, betrayed.

"That is settled then. He will not become a god."

Arlya stood and glared at the rest of the court. "What are you thinking? Alfred is human, he will age, and he will die, and that will be another victory for the Daemons!"

Heracles stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. "There is more than one way to keep a mortal alive. Since you cannot make him a god, find another way."

"Such as?"

"Freeze his age."

"Is that what you did with Kiku?"

"Yes. He is still mortal, but he does not age. The same might work for your Alfred."

"How does one go about freezing a mortal's age?"

The sleepy god stared ahead for a moment before replying, "A charm is usually the most effective. They're complicated, but I can help you with the preservation spells."

Arlya looked around the court. "How does this offer stand? We freeze his age, but keep him mortal."

There was a general assent, so Arlya swept off to design the magic. She stopped by Alfred's room. He was still sleeping, face pressed into his bandaged-wrapped hand.

"Don't worry, my baby. Soon, soon."

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed chapter three. Constructive criticism, encouragement, suggestions, edits are all loved. **

**I'm trying to rewrite my summary to be more catchy, so any advice there would also be great~  
**

**Thanks to Z again.  
**


	5. The Festival

**A/N: I'm sorry this is so late! This chapter wasn't really all that hard to write, it just wrote itself quite slowly. Then I didn't want to edit until my beta harassed me into finishing it (Thanks for not letting me be too lazy, Z). Hopefully this relatively long chapter makes up for it, and though it does have a bit of a slower pace, I hope it will be interesting. **

**OH, and before I forget, if any readers read my last chapter the first day it was posted, please go back and reread the second half again. I posted the wrong version of the document and only caught it after a day had passed. There's a little but extra in the scene where Arthur hears Alfred play for the first time, but most of the changes are in the final scene.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

A week after he made the deal with Arthur, Alfred woke to Arlya running her fingers through his hair. He mumbled at her and groped around for his glasses lost in the blanket. He cursed when his knuckles rapped against the wood of his lyre, sending shooting pain through his hand. It was still lying in his bed. He must have fallen asleep playing again.

Arlya chuckled at her sleepy boy and a hint of sadness slipped into her smile. Every time she looked at him, she was reminded that she had failed. He was not a god and even worse, he was still bound by the vow to that cursed Daemon.

She would not fail again. Soon they would see her way, and Alfred would be safe. She was so consumed by her thoughts that she started when Alfred addressed her.

"Arlya? Is everything alright?"

She snapped back to attention and beamed at the boy. "Of course, my baby. Everything is just fine. In fact, do you know what day it is?"

Alfred frowned and shook his head.

"It's the Festival of Spring. The snows are beginning to retreat, and planting season will start soon. Heracles will be spending the day in Aenea, the city the Daemons attacked earlier this winter."

Alfred bounced in his bed. Maybe this would be the year he could finally go. He had never attended, but he had heard much about the Festival from Kiku, who went every year with Heracles. It was supposed to be one of the grander of the many religious festivals, full of color, and decorations, and dancing, and famous for the food. Every autumn, Heracles would visit the mortal realm and take offerings of the best meats and produce from the harvest and take them to Caelei, where they would remain, unchanged, until the Festival of Spring, when he would return it. Surviving the winter on nothing but preserves and salted meats inspired the bakers and housewives to prepare their most elaborate and delicious dishes with the fresh food the fertility god brought.

Arlya gave him an indulgent smile. "It is also a special time for you, Alfred," she cupped his cheek in her hand. "The winter is over. You have seen over eighteen years and by mortal standards you are no longer a child. Why don't we go to the Festival in celebration?"

Alfred leapt from the bed. "Really?" he asked, eyes shining. Despite his recent adventures in the mortal realm, Arlya rarely allowed him anywhere outside of Caelei. He dove under his bed, shaking out a wrinkled tunic before pulling it over his head.

"Of course, my baby. I'm sure Kiku won't mind showing you around, and you won't bother Heracles. He'll spend most of the day with the priests and what few farmers live in the mountains. He's already in Aenea, blessing and helping with the preparations."

Alfred hadn't heard anything past the mention of Kiku. He pulled on a pair of ordinary boots and turned to the waiting goddess. They swept off to find the craftsman.

Alfred, Kiku, and Arlya landed outside the iron gates of the city. Ribbons of bright green and yellow were draped along the top of the city wall, and Alfred could just make out more streaks of color on the peak of the temple that towered about the walls. The city guards fell to their knees as Arlya approached and ushered them through the heavy doors without a word.

The main cobbled road was lined with booths and vendors, all adorned in bright decorations. The stalls were covered in dyed sheets of fabric, anticipating the new life of the coming spring. People wandered or ran through the street, greeting their friends or contemplating buying a snack or a doll.

The small group of people closest to the entrance noticed Arlya and sank down, heads bowed. She beamed at them all and held her arms out in welcome. She turned to Alfred and Kiku.

"I leave for my temple," she said and handed Kiku a pouch of money. "Stay out of trouble, Alfred, and stick close to Kiku. Kiku, I trust you'll look after him."

Kiku bowed and nodded. "Of course, Goddess."

Alfred pouted at the condescending treatment. He was a man now. He didn't need Kiku to babysit him. He watched as Arlya turned and swept off towards her temple. He turned to his friend beside him.

"So where do we start?"

Kiku's dark eyes lit up.

"Last year there was a man who sold folded paper. Shall we see if he is here again?"

"Folded paper? That seems a little boring," said Alfred. Kiku sighed and dragged Alfred off in search of the booth. When they found it, Alfred stood transfixed and Kiku smirked.

"Look over here, Kiku! This one's a frog. And it hops!"

Alfred turned to his friend, small paper frog in his hand. He pressed down on its back end and snorted in delight as it flew out of his hand. He turned to pick it up when his attention was caught by another intricate animal.

Kiku bent down to pick the forgotten frog from the ground. Official adult or not, Alfred needed supervision. He had already manhandled most of the artist's creations and would have had to pay for several if Kiku hadn't saved the few Alfred let fall to the ground to be crushed by the masses.

"Come on, Alfred, haven't you looked long enough?"

"No way. I don't know which one I'm going to get."

Kiku sighed. The vendor was staring to get annoyed.

"Aren't you hungry?" Kiku asked. It was a last resort to move Alfred away from the poor man's wears. As he predicted, Alfred's head shot up, and he nodded, tuft of hair bouncing. They wandered off down the street to where steam rose from fresh cooking.

It turned out that Alfred was as indecisive about what to eat as he was about everything else. He meandered back and forth between the food stalls, hopelessly torn until he finally settled for a meat patty in a bun topped with some fresh lettuce and tomato. Kiku held a small bowl filled with rice and vegetables.

"The parade is about to start," said Kiku.

Alfred took a huge bite out of his meal and mumbled something unintelligible through his mouthful.

Kiku frowned. "Come again?"

Alfred swallowed and gestured around. "Where's the best view?"

"Follow me."

Kiku led the way from the packed street to the great wood and iron walls of the city and up a rickety stairwell to the battlements. They leaned against the outer wall, gazing out at the view of the city. It was a sight to behold. The great temple rose up in the center, wings shooting off like spokes of a wheel. The main road was hardly visible underneath the masses that crowded over it. Drums began to sound from the temple courtyard as people shuffled to make a path for the parade.

"First come the Daemons of winter," whispered Kiku.

Men poured out into the streets, they wore nothing but breeches and horrible, grotesque masks. They danced through the square, leaping in time with the heavy thuds of the drums. They pulled other masked people from the crowd, though these wore the faces of animals. The Daemon-dancers swept around them, and the animal-dancers spun and pretended to die. Still forms littered the streets as the remaining dancers leapt over them, moving as if they had lost all control of their bodies.

It struck Alfred as wrong. "I don't understand," he said to Kiku, remembering a pair of vivid green eyes. "Daemons wouldn't hurt animals, even livestock, and they don't look a thing like those horrible masks."

Kiku stared at his friend. "It is a representation. They do not look like that on the outside, but those masks and dances show the emotional appearance of the Daemons." He paused. "Are you defending them?"

"No. No, of course not. It's just… it doesn't sit with me right."

Kiku shrugged and turned back to the celebration. Ten dancers, decorated in various swirling ribbons and elaborate headdresses stepped out into the street. They moved with a grace the erratic movements of the Daemons couldn't match. The Daemons began to fall and the onlookers began to cheer.

Alfred turned away to gaze at the still snowy forest. Movement caught his eye. Trees were shaking and a great cloud of snow rose not to far away from the city.

"Hey Kiku, look at that!" Alfred said pointing to the commotion.

Kiku looked out with feigned interest. "I see. What do you think it is?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," he said as he bolted for the stairs.

"Alfred—" Kiku called, but the boy was gone, already down the stairs and halfway to the gate. Kiku turned back to the festivities. He'd go find Alfred after the parade. After all, how much trouble could the boy get himself into?

* * *

Alfred ran past the city guards and into the bare land that surrounded the city. There was still evidence of the fight from a month before. Alfred climbed over cracked boulders and debris as he approached the forest. He stood just outside the wall of trees, trying to remember which way the commotion was. If he remembered correctly, it should be just straight off from the gates. He set off into the trees.

Though it was sunny, the forest was dark and cold. The snow was hard and icy, crunching with every step Alfred took. The black-green fir trees shot up every few paces, intermixed with bare, knotty oaks and ghostly aspens. Lifeless shrubs made most of the space between the trees, making going in a straight line impossible. To top it off, every direction looked the same, and soon Alfred found himself lost. He didn't know which direction the town was, much less the direction of the disturbance he'd seen.

With a sigh, Alfred let his feet wander, hoping he'd run into one or the other soon enough. He was struggling through a particularly stubborn patch of undergrowth when he heard a pained shout from up ahead, followed by a string of curses. Alfred froze mid-step. He extracted himself from prickly brush. He squinted ahead, trying to make out the source through the trees.

_It's probably best to try to avoid whatever made that shout, _he thought, though his feet made to move in its direction. _Kiku might be starting to get worried. I should head back. Whichever direction back is. _

His body deemed otherwise, and he gave himself to his curiosity without anymore useless struggle.

The voices were farther off than Alfred thought. He would have lost his way again if not for the constant, shouted arguments. Something about the voices sounded familiar. They came from a clearing, just through the trees ahead. Alfred peaked through. His eyes widened.

Ivan was standing in the middle, his back turned to Alfred. He wore only loose trousers and was shouting in pain as a bent over figure in a black cloak fussed over his lower back. Alfred shrank back when he noticed a female Daemon with distinctive waist-length pale hair pacing in front of them. She flicked a stone dagger in and out of its sheath on her waist. Her worry was obvious on her pale face and she fidgeted and shouted at the black figure to hurry up. She walked back and forth across the snow; wolf paws silent and tail sweeping.

"They have begun the mining already, Brother?"

Ivan nodded and gave another gasp of pain. Alfred could just make out a deep gash running along the small of his back, partially stitched together with slim harringbones. "They start earlier every year, Natalia," he said. "And every year it gets worse." His voice shook in bitterness. "They cut and chip away at the mountains, leaving scars along their sides. And there is nothing I can do with those cursed gods protecting them."

Alfred leaned forward to catch more of the conversation when his feet lost their traction on the snow and he crashed forward. Natalia's eyes narrowed and in a heartbeat Alfred found himself flung out into the clearing.

"What do you want, human?" Natalia asked as she stalked over to him. "You are from the city, no doubt. I should skewer you and leave you as an example to the rest of your people. How would they like to see their kin's head on a pike, hm?"

Alfred tried to scoot away, but a large paw slammed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He winced as dull black nails dug into his chest. The Daemon glared at him for a moment before she bent over and yanked him up by the elbow. Alfred shuddered at the coldness in her eyes. She opened her mouth when she was interrupted.

"Alfred?"

He and Natalia looked over at the black-cloaked figure. He stood up to his full height and threw back his hood, revealing short, messy hair and a characteristic frown.

"Arthur," said Alfred. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or more frightened by the Daemon's presence. But Arthur didn't look angry, just surprised.

Ivan glanced over, his eyes narrowing. "You are the gods' messenger are you not? I saw you here before. What is wrong, human, lost your wings?"

"Messenger?" Natalia mumbled to herself. Her grip on Alfred's shoulder tightened and she whipped a stone dagger from her side. Alfred shuddered against the cold edge against his neck. "It will be my pleasure to kill you then, god-filth."

"Natalia!" Arthur snapped. "Release him."

"Why? He dies, the gods lose another pawn."

Uncertainty flickered across Arthur's face, only to be replaced with calm a second later. "It's not worth it. One human death isn't worth bringing down the wrath of the gods. Not now, at least."

"Perhaps—"

"The same thing goes for kidnapping. Not worth it." He returned to Ivan's lower back. "Those stitches should hold. Don't do anything overly strenuous, or you'll break the harringbones and it will open again. And though I love your company ever so much, I would prefer to stay on my moors."

Ivan shrugged and replaced his shirt and coat. He gestured for Natalia to follow. She released her bruising grip on Alfred's shoulder and followed her brother into the forest. Arthur straightened and stretched, back arching and tail curling under his cloak. He still frowned at Alfred, but there was a small light of amusement in his eyes.

"Come along then. I presume you're lost."

"I'm not going to answer that."

Arthur chuckled to himself. "I knew it. Follow me. I'll get you back to the city."

Alfred sulked as he followed Arthur through the forest. He didn't need a baby sitter. So he was lost, he would have found his way out eventually. He resented that Arthur, a _Daemon_, had to not only save him from another maniacal Daemon, but had to take him back to the city like a lost puppy. He had gods to fuss over him. He didn't need Arthur to as well. He caught a glimpse of the sky through the canopy. He stood, looking at it. He missed the freedom flying gave him and he swore that he'd never go anywhere without his winged boots again.

Arthur looked back to check on Alfred and was startled when he wasn't in sight. He backtracked and found Alfred glaring up at the sky.

"Alfred?" The boy flinched then walked up to Arthur.

"Sorry. Lead the way, Daemon." Arthur was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. He lead the way in silence.

When they reached the edge of the trees, both let out a simultaneous sigh of relief. Alfred glanced over at Arthur in confusion.

"These mountain forests are cramped. I like to breathe."

"Agreed," said Alfred. He was calmer now that they were out in the open.

"So I will see you soon?"

"Right." Arthur bristled at the apathy in his voice.

"You don't have to worry about anything, I'll find you."

"So you've said."

Arthur's frustration was beginning to boil over. "I suppose manners are above you. I won't wait around for you to thank me," he said.

"For what?"

"For helping you, git!" Arthur snapped as he threw up his arms in exasperation.

Alfred's tone was still soft, but held an edge Arthur wasn't expecting. "I didn't need your help."

Arthur didn't know how to respond, so he slipped into this defensive sarcasm. "Of course you didn't. You would just prefer to wander around in the woods until your beloved goddess found you and took you home." Fed up, he turned and vanished.

Alfred's retort died on his tongue. He wandered back to the city, not looking forward to their next meeting.

The parade had ended some time ago, and the streets were once again packed with people. Alfred wandered aimlessly through the crowds, half looking for Kiku, half lost in his own thoughts. The people in this sector of the streets were beginning to get rowdy from the amount of free alcohol that was present. Alfred felt a tug in his shirt. He turned to see a pretty girl with short, blond hair that had blue a ribbon tied in it.

"Excuse me," she said, voice soft but demanding, "could you help me find my brother? You seem to be the only one around here who isn't drunk."

"Of course," Alfred replied, slipping into hero-mode, "Where do you think he is?"

Her hands twitched in front of her red dress. Alfred could have sworn he saw a marking on her the back of her covered hand as she hid it. "I believe he is meeting with the High Priest. Women aren't allowed in without a male escort."

The girl wrapped her arm around Alfred's, taking care to keep the back of her hand out of sight, and they walked towards the temple. They were almost into the courtyard when a woman screamed at them. She tall, and her willowy frame was robed in pure white. The silver circlet on her brow marked her as a high ranking dedicate of Arlya.

"Shame on you!" she shouted as she strode over, and yanked the girl away from Alfred. She held the girl's hand up above her head, revealing a white crescent moon on the back, the mark of a sworn Arlyan dedicate. "You disgrace the great goddess! Hanging onto the arm of a man. What could you be thinking?"

A small crowd formed around the two women. "Chastity, purity, devotion," she said, reciting the code of Arlya, "you have none of those!" She threw the girl to the ground.

Alfred snapped out of his shock and tried to step in. "You're mistaken, she—I nev-"

"Silence! You should be punished for attempted corruption of an Arylan dedicate."

The girl on the ground pushed herself to her feet. She faced the raging woman with impressive calm. "Priestess, please, I just wanted to find my brother."

The priestess slapped her across the cheek. "You have no brother." the girls eyes narrowed, "Your family should be the Arlyan Dedicates, but now you've thrown that away. You leave us no choice, if you want to remain in the city, you will become a Dedicate of Francis, since that is what you so obviously desire."

For the first time, terror shown across the girl's face. She stepped back in horror. The priestess caught her wrist and began to drag her out if the courtyard. Alfred was trying to process what was happening and how he could help the girl when a new shout rang out from the temple.

"Lily!"

"Big Brother!"

A young man clad in green ran into the square. He shoved himself between the girl and the priestess, and drew his sword with a quiet swish.

"Keep your hands off my sister, Priestess," he snarled. He wasn't tall, and the priestess towered over him, but the way he held his sword, as if it were an extension of his arm rather than a weapon, made the woman back away.

"You dare draw a blade on a dedicate?"

"You dare threaten my sister with forced prostitution?" he countered. The woman blinked in surprise. The young man continued to glare. "Don't think I don't know what they do in this city. We may not be from here, but even we know about the Aenean Dedicates of Francis."

The priestess glanced down the length of the sword and shuffled. "All the dedicates in Aenea are faithful. Those of Francis serve their god just as diligently as those of Arlya. We obey the only the commands of our gods." With a dignified huff, whipped around and strode away, crowd parting around her.

Alfred felt his stomach twist. Francis' faithful were prostitutes? He knew the man was attracted to anything that moved, but promoting prostitution? It seemed to go against the entire concept of love Francis never shut up about.

Alfred's thoughts were interrupted by a cold metal tip pointed at his heart. He jumped back and fell to the street.

"Do you have any idea what you almost inflicted on my sister?" The young man shouted.

"I think I understood most of it. I'm sorry! She just asked me for help. How was I supposed to know that if she were seen with a man she'd be sent into prostitution?" Cold eyes glinted. Without lifting his sword, he addressed his sister:

"Why did you follow me, Lily? I sent you to the Arlyan dedicates back home to keep you safe. Now you're here, in a city of fanatics, and a priestess has essentially just banished you."

The girl frowned; her eyes were calm again, holding none of the fear from a moment ago.

"I had to follow you, Vash," she said. "What if you were hurt, or hungry, or needed some pajamas?" She reached into a knapsack she carried and pulled out some warm-looking sleepwear. "You forgot them."

With a final glare at Alfred, Vash sheathed his sword. "Life as a mercenary is never easy. I left you for good reason," he said, though he took his sister by the hand.

Lily smiled. "And that is why you need me. Face it, Brother, you are not getting rid of me." She walked over to Alfred and helped him to his feet. "Thank you for helping me," she said. "You must forgive my brother. He gets grumpy when he has to deal with strangers."

Alfred smiled and watched the two walked in the direction of the city gate until they vanished into the crowd.

"Alfred, there you are!"

He turned to see Kiku running at him. He halted and looked a bit irritated, which meant that the young man was furious as he hardly let any emotion pierce his composure.

"Where have you been? Do you know how long I've been looking for you? Only to find you in the middle of a crowd with a raving priestess. Do you know who that woman is? She is the head priestess of the Dedicates of Arlya in this city, no woman to be trifled with," he said in one long breath, before remembering his manners and looked down at his feet in embarrassed silence. "I apologize, Alfred, that outburst was unnecessary and unseemly."

Alfred looked up at the sky. It was just beginning to darken. Pinks shifted to orange as they spilled across the deepening blue. "It's alright, Kiku," he said. "Just a misunderstanding. Nothing harmed, right?"

Kiku gave a noncommittal sigh. "Shall we find Arlya and Heracles? The festival is winding down."

Alfred continued to stare upwards. He was still unnerved by his encounter with Vash and his cold, sea green eyes and how the man looked perfectly willing to pierce Alfred with his sword. Sea green darkened to forest-green and Alfred found himself playing over his recent meeting with the Arthur.

"Alfred?"

His pride was still wounded from the encounter. Not to mention he could feel a paw-shaped bruise blooming on his chest. He resented that Arthur had to save him, and his condescension was infuriating, but Alfred figured he could have been a bit more grateful.

"I'm coming, Kiku."

* * *

Alfred sat on his bed, staring at nothing. He shut his eyes and rubbed them, trying to rid them of the afterimage of the Daemon. He grabbed a pillow and hit himself in the head with it.

"Get out. Get out. Get out," he said. Every syllable punctuated with a soft thud. Soft hands pried the pillow from Alfred's fingers and he looked up into Arlya's concerned face.

"You're meeting it tomorrow, aren't you?" she murmured.

"Him," Alfred corrected. "I'm a bit nervous. He insulted me last time."

Anger flashed in Arlya's eyes. "I should go with you and make that filthy creature lift the oath. You don't deserve something like this to happen to you. I'll teach it a to mess with the gods' chosen—"

"Arlya, stop! I don't need you to protect me anymore." He scowled at her. "Remember what you said this morning? I'm an adult. I can take care of my own problems. I don't need you to take care of everything for me."

Arlya's eyes were widened. This was her baby boy. He would always need her. Despite her assurances to herself, doubt still weighed on her mind. She had to be sure he was still her's. She let the grief she felt at the possibility of losing her boy flow through her, choking her voice and filling her eyes with tears.

Guilt tore through Alfred as he looked on, and his frustration vanished. He stood up and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm sorry; I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." How could he forget how Arlya could swing from fine, to angry, to weepy in a matter of seconds? She did it to manipulate the other gods, but she wouldn't do it to him, would she? No, her trusted her.

"Of course you did," she said, voice quavering, though triumphant gleamed in her eyes. Her worries lifted. Alfred was still hers; his immediate response to her tears proved it. "But I forgive you, Alfred, and in celebration of your new adulthood," she allowed herself a small smirk at the irony as Alfred had just proved he was still under the moon goddess' influence, "I have something for you." She pulled out of Alfred's grasp and slipped a pendant out of the fold of her robe.

Alfred took it from her. It was a study silver chain with a small hourglass pendant hanging from it. It was graceful, the glass was held in a cage of golden wires. He squinted at the hourglass within. There was no sand, but the center was encased in clear crystal.

He glanced up at Arlya, her eyes were still wet and she looked so eager. In hopes of soothing her, Alfred slipped the pendant over his head and felt a chill run over and through him. He looked up at the goddess in alarm.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's a charm, Heracles helped me make it. It has frozen your age. The last Daemon wars went on for over a century, and the gods wish to preserve you."

Alfred slipped it under his tunic where the cold metal found an unobtrusive place to rest.

"Thank you."

Arlya pulled him close. "You're welcome, my baby." With a final squeeze, she rose and left.

Alfred pulled out the pendant again, examining it. He could tell by its design that Arlya had crafted it, though the spells were Heracles' specialty. He wondered if she had added anything to it.

He slipped it back down his neck and reached over and grabbed his lyre. He warmed his fingers up and began practicing some of his favorite pieces. He pondered which ones he should play for Arthur tomorrow. The Daemon's snide remarks on his playing still stung, and Alfred was determined to try to impress him, or at least avoid any more insults.

"Why is every song Francis teaches me about love?" he asked his lyre, though the answer was obvious. He made a note to explain that to Arthur before he was ridiculed.

He blew out the candle by his bed and lay back. He fidgeted from side to side, finally ending up on his stomach clutching a pillow. He tried to push down his nerves. Arthur left him earlier in an irritated huff, and the prospect of meeting him again was frightening.

"Why did I agree to this again? Why didn't just I let Arlya deal with it?"

Lonely green eyes swam in his vision.

"Ugh!" he said, squeezing his pillow. "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

* * *

**A/N: Comments make my life, so please review! Thanks to IchigoMelon for the summary advice!**

**Finals are coming up next week (and I turn eighteen!), so I probably won't update during the week at all, but we leave Friday for a Softball Tournament that involves a five hour bus ride so guess who will hopefully pound out another chappie or two? Then the week after is my spring break, and hopefully I'll get another chapter or two out then. **

**Virtual cookies and eternal respect for anyone who can figure out why the city is name Aenea. Of you can, you have way too much obscure knowledge in your head, but still, cookies anyone?  
**


	6. The First Meeting

**A/N: Late Chapter is late. Sorry, I am alive. But I'll have a USUK one-shot up either tomorrow or early in the week in addition to this. I did work over those two weeks! But anyways, now that finals are over, college acceptances are in, and life is returning to something a little more normal, I should be back to my once a week updates. **

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"Alfred, if you can't sit still you're going to have to leave," Francis sighed as he rubbed his temples. "It's obvious your mind is elsewhere."

Alfred set down his lyre and shuffled from side to side, looking at the calluses beginning to form on the sides of his fingers. He maintained a nervous silence despite Francis' expectant gaze. Francis frowned. The boy's silence concerned him. He usually couldn't get Alfred to shut up, but today he'd hardly spoken two complete sentences.

"You can talk to me, Alfred," said Francis, as he laid a hand on Alfred's shoulder. The boy flinched. "Have I done something to offend you? Or might this be about your little meeting later tonight?"

Alfred shrugged, saying nothing. He was nervous for tonight, that much was true. Arthur and their upcoming meeting hadn't left Alfred's thoughts the entire night, as the circles under his eyes could attest, but his daily practice session with Francis also brought back the disturbing encounter of the day before. What Vash had said about the dedicates of Francis weighed on Alfred's mind. It didn't make sense to him. Francis could be superficial and petty sometimes, but Alfred would never expect him to condone — let alone encourage — prostitution in his name.

He glanced up into Francis' blue eyes. Alfred opened his mouth several times, closed it several times. "I didn't think you were like that," he finally said.

Francis blinked in confusion. "Happy we've got that cleared up," he said sarcastically. When Alfred didn't respond, Francis squeezed his shoulder. "Like what?" he asked. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Them — your dedicates. How could you really tell them to do something… like _that_? It's wrong!" said Alfred, eyes swimming in confusion.

Francis wracked his brain. His dedicates were mostly upstanding people who gave their lives to art and love. Alfred did tend to have a black and white view of morality, but what could have caused such a reaction?

"Aenea," he whispered. The boy must had seen or heard something about his dedicates in Aenea while he was there. Francis pressed his palms into his eyes.

"You heard something at the festival?" he asked. Alfred nodded. "I understand now, but Alfred, please believe it when I say that I in no way condone their behavior. My dedicates — my real dedicates — give their lives to art and their families."

Alfred stared at the god. His response and explanation were reassuring, but brought to light a more urgent issue in Alfred's mind.

"Then why don't you stop them?" he asked, frustrated. "Those people are devoted to you, if you said something—"

"Do you think I haven't tried? It's not so simple."

"What's not simple about it? You tell them to stop, they'll obey. That's what dedicates do."

"Whoever told you that was lying," said Francis, his voice weary.

That took Alfred by surprise. A priestess lie? Now that Alfred thought about it, it wasn't that unlikely. It had just never occurred to him that one of Arlya's faithful would be anything but truthful.

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

Francis let out another sigh and turned his back to Alfred. He stood in silence, pondering the dimming sky.

"The dedicates claim to follow only the orders of the gods, and many honestly do. But there are also places, such as Aenea, where that gets lost." He paused and began pacing.

"Alfred, promise me that anything I say stays between us and will never leave this hill."

Alfred nodded.

"Cities, such as Aenea rely on a strict hierarchy to function," he explained. "When so many people live together, it's necessary for the survival of society. However, the time may come when those hierarchies as an institution feel threatened. They feel they must retain—"

A swooshing sound cut him off. Arlya appeared on the hillside, just outside Francis' garden, a smile on her lips but an angry look in her eyes.

"Alfred, it's time. It would be unwise to keep the Daemon waiting," she said and extended her hand. Alfred didn't take it, but stood by her, looking back at Francis, still confused. The god of love gave a slight shake of his head, cutting off any lingering questions. He locked eyes with Arlya, her suspicious glare falling on his now defiant one.

With a frown, Arlya grasped Alfred's hand and took him to the gate of Caelei.

Alfred looked up at the impressive marble archway. A star hung from the keystone, with a paper charms hanging from each point as if waiting for a non-existent wind.

"Just think of where you want to go when you pass under. You'll end up there," the goddess said. Alfred nodded. He had heard all this before.

She squeezed his hand. "I can get you out of this. I'll find that Daemon and force him to release you."

The offer was tempting. Alfred wasn't eager for his next encounter with Arthur, but he wouldn't back down so easily. Something stubborn rose up within him. No, he would go through with their agreement, at least for now, and see where it took him. If nothing else, this encounter would soothe the anxiety that kept him up the night before. Alfred scowled at those green eyes in his mind. Hopefully they would be gone by tomorrow.

"No, Arlya," he said. "It's not worth it. He won't hurt me, so please, stop worrying."

"He won't hurt you? Where ever did that idea come from?"

Alfred ignored her. He wasn't convinced of it himself, but had already resolved himself to go. He jerked his hand away and strode under the archway, vanishing into the mortal realm.

* * *

He stumbled as he was tossed from the gate by some unseen force, but he was not met with the cobbled stones of the threshold, but rather a soft dampness. He pushed himself up from the grassy hillside and straightened his glasses. The sun was lowering in the west, unhidden by the few wispy clouds in the sky. The golden light bathed the rolling hills, catching here and there off pools and little streams.

Alfred turned his face up at the gentle breeze that rustled over the grass. It was chilly with humidity from a recent rainstorm but thick with a vitality that the static air of Caelei lacked. True to his vow at the festival, he had come in his messenger's boots, white wings humming with anticipation. He flung himself into the air. The hills fell away below as he climbed towards the setting sun. The wind was stronger the higher he flew but the growing chill faded in the joy of flying through real, living air.

He spun and flipped and practiced all his acrobatics in the sweet air, only halting when he noticed a black-cloaked figure gazing at him. Alfred swooped down, touching down next to Arthur, who watched him with an unreadable expression.

Alfred opened his mouth to apologize for not coming down sooner when Arthur spoke first.

"You love it, don't you? Flying?"

Unsure how to reply, Alfred just nodded.

"You're movements up there, they're happy and very free," he continued, expression open and almost curious.

"I guess," Alfred said, smiling. Arthur gave a small, barely-there smile of his own, and gestured up the hill. "Come along then."

Alfred followed, tripping a few times over stones that Arthur's paws just seemed to glide over. They reached the crest of the hill between a circle of boulders where a small gathering of firewood, a clay cooking pot, a pile of vegetables, and two dead rabbits were laid.

"As you're mine for the night, I figured you'd want to eat sometime," he said in explanation. He found two boulders rather close together and reclined against one of them, indicating for Alfred to do the same.

Alfred brought out his lyre and shuffled his shoulders against the lichen-covered stone. He glanced over at Arthur whose russet tail was draped over his lap, out of the mud, and noticed the hint of a smile still on his face.

"You're in an awfully good mood today" he said. "It's been a couple minutes and you haven't insulted me yet."

"Well, that needs to change, as you are an idiot," said Arthur, though there was little venom in it. "I suppose I am happy, though. It's rare to have such a sunny day. Not that rain bothers me, but days such as this are… pleasant."

Alfred let the silence hang a moment before strumming a few chords. He glanced up at Arthur, whose eyes were closed in enjoyment.

"I have to warn you," Alfred said, "All the music I know is about love."

Arthur snorted. "Francis is you teacher correct? That fool hasn't changed a bit."

Alfred's fingers picked across the strings, warming themselves up. "You know Francis?" he asked.

"Of course I do," Arthur said. "Anyone who has been around as long as we have will know each other in one way or another."

"Even though he's a god?"

"Especially because he's a god. Now, stop talking and begin."

Alfred bit down the questions that were rising in his mind and launched into on of his favorite pieces. The world fell away as the music filled his mind, taking up all of his concentration. His audience was forgotten as the notes drifted from the strings, occasionally missed but quickly fixed.

The wetness in the air and covering Alfred from his flight began to chill as the sunset and a breeze picked up. The sky bled red as the last of the light tipped behind the horizon. In a moment, everything was washed a dark blue. Alfred strained his eyes and ignored the small shivers that ran up his damp back and neck. It was only after a horribly dissonant slip that Arthur raised protest.

"What was that?" he demanded. "I though you were going to play for me, not maim my ears."

Alfred flinched at the comment but fought back. "I can't see anything anymore and my fingers are freezing—"

"Oh woe is you. Life must be hard."

"If I'm so bad, you can just let me go and find another human to slave over an instrument for you," Alfred responded, voice tight with hurt and frustration.

Arthur's expression softened from outright irritation to mild exasperation. "You're not bad, per say," he said, getting to his feet. "Just careless. You get ahead of yourself and then you trip over your own fingers. Slow down a bit, and you'll be better."

"It also helps when I can see," said Alfred. He shook out his hands and rubbed his arms, trying to ward of the chill. A gust of night air blew over his neck and into his damp hair, sending him into an involuntary spasm.

Arthur noticed this with a frown and slung off his cloak from his shoulders. Muttering something about idiots and catching death, he tossed it to Alfred who slipped under the worn but warm material without a second thought.

"Thanks," said Alfred. "I don't deal well with cold."

Arthur nodded in acknowledgment, a small frown just barely visible in the night. "So it would seem. But I won't allow you to get out of our arrangement so easily," he said shifting into an outright glare, "I could have let you been ripped to shreds, so you still owe me. A couple of ballads don't begin to cover your debt to me."

Alfred nodded, suppressing a comment about how Arthur had ordered for Alfred to be killed in the first place. He stood and wrapped the cloak around himself as he watched Arthur build the beginnings of a fire. He looked on with interest and was startled when Arthur addressed him.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh and repeated, "Would you mind getting the fire going? I was going to prepare the ingredients for some stew."

Alfred was thankful the night hid his face. "I don't know how," he mumbled to his boots.

"Come again?"

"I don't know how. Never made a fire before. Sorry."

"Can't say I'm all that surprised," Arthur said. "Would you like me to teach you?"

Alfred's head jerked up at the unexpected offer. Arthur looked up at him from the pile of wood expectantly. "Sure," Alfred said, "If you don't mind."

"Not particularly. I doubt survival skills are something the gods teach their pets." He beckoned Alfred beside him. "First the kindling— these little pieces here. We'll make a little pile of them, plenty of air of course. Now when those start to burn we'll begin adding the bigger pieces."

Alfred imitated the kindling pile perfectly on his first try, and though he had some trouble at first getting a piece of flint to spark, he managed it well enough. Soon Arthur and Alfred were tending a healthy fire, and Alfred felt better for the warmth. Arthur didn't seem to be bothered by the chill in the air as he moved around, attending to the rabbits and the vegetables. Alfred was given a water-filled clay pot to hang over the fire, which was a task in itself. Finally he had it hanging from a careful construction of branches that he was quite proud of.

Arthur walked over and deposited he chunks of rabbit meat along with what just looked like plain grass into the water. Alfred watched him, never having cooked himself. Arthur was careful and methodical as he prepared the stew, counting stirs to the left and right in what looked to Alfred a very complicated and precise method.

Awhile later, Arthur declared it ready. Arthur looked at the bowl that was presented to him with curiosity. Meals in Caelei were never so rustic, as Heracles, Francis, and Gilbert insisted, and the latter two often competed, on preparing the food. Alfred lifted the bowl to his lips and took a sip of the broth. He froze, eyes wide. It was the worst thing he had ever tasted, including the snails Francis made occasionally. He managed to swallow the mouthful of broth that tasted of warm, gritty dirt. He gasped, trying to pull fresh air into his mouth to rid it out the gamey, dirty taste.

Arthur watched the display with a frown. He sipped from his own bowl and though the taste was not good by any means, he didn't think that strong of a reaction was necessary.

"What is this?" Alfred demanded.

"Stew."

"Are you sure?"

Arthur huffed, his face reddening in the firelight. "Yes, I'm sure," he said. "I can't be blamed if you have no taste."

"If I don't, it's because whatever this is killed all sense of it I had," Alfred retorted, swirling his bowl. The near raw vegetables clicked against each other and the chunks of rubbery, grainy meat floated in the poor broth.

"You don't have to eat it, you know," Arthur said. "But you could be a little more grateful. I gathered all of this myself. I thought you might appreciate something warm, but I suppose I was wrong. Is gratitude beneath you? I lead you out of a forest that you were miserably lost in, and got the same reaction."

Alfred didn't meet his gaze. He wrapped Arthur's cloak tighter around his chilled body as the itch of guilt he had felt since the last day grew and gnawed at him. Almost no one treated him with anything but condescension and the festival had been his breaking point. So he had taken that frustration out on Arthur, someone whose feelings he had been taught ever since he was small didn't exist or didn't matter. He knew what he did and was sorry for it.

He took another long sip from the bowl, crunching some of the undercooked vegetables but holding down any grimace he was tempted to let slip. It might taste awful, but Arthur was right about one thing, it was warm and it helped dispel some of the chill that clung to him. The Daemon watched Alfred finish his stew in silence, then stare at the empty bowl. The boy sat there, occasionally opening his mouth, as if to speak, only to shut it again.

"But if you don't mind me asking," Alfred said with a gesture at the stew pot, "where did you learn to cook?"

Arthur's face bloomed scarlet and he found some piece of the darkening sky to scowl at. "I never did learn," he admitted, "not properly at least. It never occurred to me to try to prepare food until humans started to inhabit my moors. I tasted some of their food some time ago, and it was better than any raw rabbit or deer. So I watched them, and tried to learn that way. Needless to say, I'm still learning."

"So all that precision?"

"Just something to make me feel as if I know what I'm doing."

Alfred shot the Daemon a tentative grin. Arthur didn't return it, his face still a bit flushed. They fell into a companionable silence as Arthur poured himself some more stew and Alfred traced idle patterns around his bowl. The sun had completely set, leaving the two with only their small fire for light. Arthur had just put down his bowl when Alfred spoke again.

"Thank you for helping me out yesterday," he said with uncharacteristic softness, "I would have been lost in there for who knows how long if it weren't for you."

Arthur huffed, unwilling to forgive so quickly. "That's what I told you, but you sulked the entire way. It was rude, and I won't be so eager to help you again."

Alfred bristled. "I sulked because I'm sick of everyone treating me like a child—"

"You are a child," Arthur commented.

"Am not."

"You certainly act like one."

Alfred felt an angry flush run over his face. He decided to not respond to that last comment.

"Anyways," he continued, "I was supposed to be at the festival to celebrate my own adulthood, and the last thing Arlya says is for Kiku to keep an eye on me. That's how someone treats a child, not an independent adult. I mean, sure, Kiku and I are good friends, but it was the principle of it all."

He fidgeted under the cloak, then stood and shifted from foot to foot. The flickering firelight caught his turbulent eyes and threw shadows across his upset face.

"And then, I was lost and everything, I have to be lead out of the stupid forest by a _Daemon_—"

Arthur stood himself, in one fast, fluid motion. "And what does that have to do with anything?" he asked, eyes narrowed and hands clenching.

The Daemon's burning eyes startled Alfred. "What? Wait, nothing really, it wasn't because you're a Daemon, okay so maybe it was a little but—"

"But what?" Arthur demanded. "If I help you, you resent it just because of what I am, but if Arlya had come to fetch her little pet—"

"Stop it!"

"No," Arthur said, "Look at them, how they treat you. You're their animal, their little plaything for whenever they get bored. I've known Arlya for millennia; everyone is just a toy to her. You are no exception."

Alfred flinched. The truth of the words cut him to his core. Arthur took his silence as affirmation.

"So why should it matter what I am?" Arthur asked. He swept around the fire and grabbed Alfred by the clasp of the cloak. His burning green eyes pierced Alfred's blue ones, forcing him to hold his glare. "I helped you. I didn't have to; nothing was stopping me from leaving. But I helped. I showed you the way back. I didn't patronize you or take advantage of you in any way, yet you still resent it because I happen to be a Daemon! Why?"

Alfred caught Arthur's wrists and attempted to hold him away. Finally, he found his voice.

"I don't mean to!" he said, trying to shove Arthur away from him. The Daemon clung fast. "Whenever I see you, I see what you're supposed to be, what I was told you are. You helped me, and my brain knows that— I know that— and am grateful, but a little part of me couldn't drop the feeling it was a conscious-less, slaughter-reveling Daemon guiding me. The villain of the stories Arlya used put me to bed with, horrible stories of Daemons and what they did to people and the gods."

"What? What did we do?"

"In the stories? You were bloodthirsty monsters. You killed for the sake of killing, the thrill of the slaughter, the high the screams of your victims gave you," Alfred said. He clawed at Arthur's hands as they pulled the cloak too tight around his neck. "Arlya told me that you would cut me open alive and drink my blood if you ever caught me. She made me scared of you."

"And you went along with it?" Arthur growled, giving Alfred a hard shake. "Never once did you think of finding out for yourself, because Arlya must know everything. Why question her? Who would think of doing something so bold as questioning?" He threw Alfred to the ground with disgust.

"Of course I didn't question her!" said Alfred, propping himself up on his elbows. "She's my mother! Maybe not literally, but she's the only thing I have! Of course I trusted her."

Arthur stared down at him in silence. His face hidden in shadow. Alfred took it as a sign to continue.

"But why do you think I'm here?" he asked. "Sure the blood oath is a part of it, but do you really think Arlya can't find a way to break it? She wanted to come down here and kill you herself. I'm here because every time I'm around you a part of me fears that this'll change into those stories. I can tell myself over and over that it won't happen, that it was just a story, but the fear is still there. I hate the fear. I hate that cold trembling in my gut. I'm here because I won't be frightened of stories anymore."

Alfred started when he realized he was running his mouth. He looked up, holding Arthur's eyes, just glints of reflected firelight, and wasn't embarrassed, only a little vulnerable as the shadowed face stared down at him.

"Yet you are." Arthur's voice was cold. "You are still frightened of the stories, of me."

Alfred grimaced internally but nodded, not breaking eye contact. "I don't expect you to understand," he said, "but a mother's words are hard to forget."

Arthur turned to the fire. His eyes were pressed shut, whether with anger or something else, Alfred couldn't tell. His head hung against his chest and his entire front was illuminated by the dancing, erratic shadows the fire threw.

"You're wrong," he whispered. "I understand."

He sat down beside the fire, a small distance away from where Alfred still lay on the ground. His eyes were still held closed, though the rest of his face gave no indication of his feelings. He motioned beside him.

"Come," he said, voice soft and distant. "Play some more."

Alfred slid close to the Daemon, pulling cloak after him. He held his hands up to the fire, letting the warmth sink into his fingers. He watched Arthur next to him, curious, though he didn't press. The Daemon's reaction confused him, and he felt his own anger melt as it slid off the other's face.

"Anything in particular?" Alfred asked after a pause.

Arthur shook his head.

With a last confused glance, he began. It was quieter than last time, and no bickering interrupted him. Eventually Arthur opened his eyes. He was a statue, unmoving, as he stared into the heart of the fire with unreadable eyes. Alfred glanced over to him every so often, wondering what he was thinking about, what had made his anger fall so suddenly.

The night grew late and Alfred felt his eyes grow heavy. Arthur still hadn't moved from his place by the fire. He let the last measure of the song die, and when Arthur didn't comment on the silence, curled up under the black cloak Arthur hadn't taken back. He told himself it was just for a moment, he was just resting his stinging eyes, but with his arm as a pillow and the cloak over him, he drifted to sleep.

Alfred woke with a shivering start to the diffuse, grey light of the overcast morning sky. He blinked and sat up, finding his glasses were wet with dew and crooked on his nose. He was still on the top of the hill. The pile of cinders remained next to him, but Arthur was gone, as was his cloak.

* * *

**A/N: Not a ton of action here, unless you want to count arguing as action. But it should be back by next chapter.**

**Congrats to XxKuro-koneko-nyaxX, Aenea is named for Aeneas, Vergil's hero. He's famous for his piety, so I figured I'd name the city of religious fanatics after him. On the whole, he's really quite boring. Odysseus is much cooler. Athena over Aphrodite any day. -ahem- I'll stop my mythology tirade now...  
**

**Reviews make my life. Really, I get sooo happy when I roll over in bed in the morning and check my email (isn't that the first thing everyone does in the morning?) and see reviews and subs and favs. So thanks for everyone who makes my day~**

**So please send in your questions/concerns/hopes/dreams/other kind of review!**

**~Kitten  
**


	7. On the Plains

**I'm so sorry for how late this is... But here it is:**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"It doesn't matter. Kill them. All of them!" Alfred flinched from his corner of the hall as Daka slammed her fist into the arm of her throne. "Why should we give a damn about casualties? They're nomads and heretics besides. They follow _her_."

Pakram gave a long suffering sigh. Daka was volatile at the best of times, but now spring was warming to summer and Pakram's, and therefore the other gods', power was waxing. The goddess was seething with blood lust. The quieter winter months were over and Daka was eager to begin the campaign against the Daemon's in earnest.

While Pakram admired Daka's energy, her lack of restraint could be cause for concern. He studied her with his ever even gaze, and she met him, eyes shining madly.

"While it is true the southern nomads are devoted to the Daemon," he began, choosing his words carefully, "they are nonetheless our people. I cannot permit their slaughter in good conscience."

Daka hissed and clenched the arms of her throne, though she did not argue. Gilbert reached over and squeezed her shoulder. She shrugged him off, not in the mood for the god's gesture. He continued to watch Daka with worry as she glowered through the rest of the council. As the meeting adjourned with no action decided on, she swept out of the hall and appeared a moment later on the balcony of the mountainside she called home.

She seethed. She gripped the metal until her fingers imprinted in it, her rage boiling within her. Her fingers were pried off the metal by two pale hands.

"Daka."

"I don't want any of your ridiculous feelings, Gilbert. I don't need comfort. I want action. I want vengeance," said Daka, looking out at Caelei with frustration.

Gilbert sighed. "I hate them too. I hate what they did to us, all those years ago. But it was all of them, not just Elizaveta."

"Do you think I really care?" she asked, pale eyes glinting. When she spoke again, her voice was laced with excitement more than anger. "I want her dead. I want to feel her blood warm against my skin, smell her flesh burning against my sword. She plays the custodian to a worthless, homeless people; they adore her. But I know what she is. What she really is. She's as bad as I am; she has just as much blood on her hands, starting this war in the first place. And yet she thinks she's better than I am."

"Sometimes even I don't understand you" Gilbert sighed. "It's like you don't even want to bother with the fun parts of battle: the game, the thrill, you just want to kill Elizaveta, one Daemon. The rest are just a bonus."

"I want to obliterate her. Tear every shred of her apart. Because she has the gall to act as though she has a heart, that those nomads matter to her. As if they matter to anyone! See, Elizaveta is someone I can truly destroy, and that is more satisfying then your games," Daka chuckled.

Gilbert looked on with guarded eyes. "So it is," he said without feeling vanishing behind her.

Daka continued to chuckle. "There was once a time when my blood lust was arousing," she said to the still air. "Gilbert's going soft. A pity, I like him. I suppose it might be worth my time to remind him what this goddess can offer him." She sighed, serious again, "But on the other hand, I have more important matters to attend to now."

She pushed herself up from the railing of her balcony and vanished.

* * *

As no one had asked for him, Alfred left the council and flew over to spend the afternoon with Kiku. They lazed under the unchanging sky playing with Heracles' cats. They talked of nothing important, mostly the ever-changing alliances and rivalries between the gods and goddesses, with lapses into a content silence.

"So have you noticed Daka lately?" Alfred asked, allowing a grey tabby to chew on his fingers. "Spending more time with usual with Vahnic."

"I suppose," said Kiku. "Odd. They were not on best of terms just a year ago. And that is a very short time for a god."

"Gilbert's probably jealous. Wonder how he's dealing with the sudden change," Alfred smirked, glancing over to his friend, who shook his head.

"Nothing has changed, really. I'm sure the same scenario has happened before, possibly several times."

"Probably. Even after all these eons the gods haven't changed at all."

"Of course not," Kiku said. "The gods, Caelei itself, have attained perfection, a completion unlike anything in our own realm. Nothing here changes; nothing here needs to. Everything of Caelei is static, sterile, yet forever preserved."

Alfred turned on his back and gazed at the motionless sky, the unchanging mountains. "Makes sense," he said. "But what about us? Aren't we changes here? New additions?"

"Yes, but we are not of Caelei. We are mortal, subject not to these laws but those of our own realm."

Alfred hummed and let the conversation die, though it remained in his thoughts. Caelei was static, a trait that made Alfred uneasy more and more since his recent forays into the mortal realm. There were no seasons in Caelei, only the length of the days marked the passage of a year. But that in itself was a unfaltering cycle.

"How is everything going with Arthur?" Kiku asked.

Alfred huffed and laid his head on his hands. "Fine, I guess. I've been down there, what, maybe five times? Our first meeting was the only time he ever really talked. Hasn't spoken more than three sentences to my since."

"And does that bother you?"

"What?" Alfred said. "Not really. Whenever he does speak he insults me. And when he did speak we argued most of the time. I wouldn't really say it's quite companionable, but the quiet is better than him trying to strangle me."

Kiku shook his head at his friend, bemused, and let it slip into silence.

Alfred had closed his eyes when a shadow covered him. He looked up into Francis' impatient face. The god was more anxious than Alfred had seen him since the day our their battle at Aenea.

"Hey Francis, is it time for our lesson already? I could have sworn—"

"No, no. I have a job for you. It's urgent."

"A job?"

"Yes," snapped Francis. "Are you not the messenger of the gods?"

Alfred scrambled to his feet. "Of course I am," he said with a touch of indigence.

"Good. I need you to find Daka."

"Sure, and what do I do once I find her?"

"Just tell me or Gilbert."

Francis turned and was gone.

"I wonder what he wants with her," Kiku wondered.

"Well," Alfred said, stretching his hands above his head, "Better go find out. I am the heavenly messenger after all."

Kiku chuckled as Alfred threw himself into the air.

He rose through the heavy, still air, mindful of the barrier that had thrown him out before. He made one preliminary sweep of Caelei. The mountains were as unyielding as ever, stony and cold, blocking Alfred's gaze wherever they rose. He dove and swept through the outer canyons. He saw no one. Undeterred, he made his way to Daka's home, landing gracefully on her balcony. A cough startled him.

Gilbert stood across the balcony, fidgeting though he was trying to appear unconcerned. He strode over to Alfred.

"Have you seen her?" he asked.

"Not yet," Alfred replied and gestured to the goddess' chambers. "I thought there might be some clue or something in her rooms."

"I haven't found anything, but I'll keep checking. Maybe she's in a canyon somewhere, practicing-"

"Right. I'll go look for her there," Alfred said and turned to leave. "Gilbert, calm down. I'm sure she's fine."

"Her safety's not what I'm concerned about," Gilbert said to himself.

Alfred sought out the confined cliffs usually used by the gods when they wanted to be alone. He dodged through spires and reached the highest of platforms, searching for the missing goddess. Every empty landing left him with a growing sense of dread.

He hovered above the great expanse of cliffs and canyons. Where could she have gone? Daka rarely left Caelei, and then only on some kind of war campaign. Shoving down his anxiety, he dove into the canyons, searching the winding trails for the lost goddess.

It was only after nearly losing himself in the twisting paths that he conceded defeat. Daka was nowhere he could find. Just in case, he did another general sweep of the mountains before returning anxiously to Daka's rooms.

Gilbert paced along the balcony, running his hand through his hair. Francis was also present, leaning against the railing and rubbing his palms into his eyes. Alfred touched down next to the gods, and cleared his throat.

"I couldn't find her, I have no idea where she could be."

Gilbert and Francis exchanged a glance.

"We do, unfortunately," said Gilbert.

"What? Where?"

Francis took over. "We feared it this morning, and more when she vanished. She's gone to war."

Alfred cocked his head in confusion. Francis continued, "You heard her, no? At the war council? She wanted to attack Elizaveta, a high Daemon, and her nomads. They travel to the northern edges of the southern plains this time of year, close to some of Daka's army camps who're probably marching by now."

"Daka doesn't care if she slaughters the nomads on her way to Elizaveta," Gilbert explained. "In fact, she'd enjoy it. The more slaughter, the better."

"The nomads are a formidable force," Francis reasoned, turning to Gilbert. "And they are devoted to the Daemon. Daka underestimates their strength. Elizaveta herself is not to be taken lightly, and she has a tactical advantage over Daka."

"What's that?" Alfred asked, intrigued.

"She can fly," Gilbert said darkly. "Alfred," he said, turning to the boy, "You have to find Daka. She's an excellent fighter, but I need to know if she's going to be alright. I have nothing against the nomads, in fact I like them despite their loyalty to a Daemon, but if Daka's in trouble I'll fight them all to get to her."

Alfred had never seen Gilbert so passionate, with a glance at Francis, who just gave him an unreadable stare, and he found himself agreeing. Gilbert grasped Alfred's shoulder and they appeared at the gates of Caelei. The path out of the mountains continued deceptively beyond the marble. Alfred looked up at Gilbert.

"You've never been where I need you to go," he said. "Think of a place where the mountain forest fades into a tall grassland. There's river running beside you, coming out of the mountains behind you. In the distance you can see the outline of a city. You should end up close enough to where the fighting will be."

"And once I find her, how do I get back?"

"The pendant Arlya gave you. Spin the hourglass it and call Arlya's name. She'll find you and bring you back."

Alfred nodded and steeled himself.

"Please, Alfred," Gilbert added, "bring her back."

"Don't worry, Gil, I'm up to it," Alfred laughed and stepped through the gate.

"You better be," Gilbert said to the empty air.

* * *

"Would you like some stew, _Anima_?"

A young woman offered a bowl of thick stew to the windswept Daemon. The Daemon laughed, a light, bell-like noise, and brushed her long, brown hair from her face.

"I'd love some," she said, taking the wooden bowl and spoon. She took a spoonful of the savory broth and sipped it. "It's wonderful."

The young woman's face broke into a shy smile. "Would you care to join us, _Anima_? It would be an honor."

"It would be my pleasure."

The Daemon was led back to a cooking fire surrounded by content people and their well-cared for horses. The young woman's family greeted the Daemon with familiar courtesy. She tucked her great wings close to her back and joined in the lively conversation.

"So what news do you have of the other clans, Elizaveta?" asked an older man.

"There's not much to tell. Life goes on much in other clans as it does here. I'd rather hear about your lives since I've been gone."

Elizaveta listened as the group recited their most recent adventures: hunting mishaps, thrown horseshoes, and their last visit to the city. She was helping clean the wooden cookware when she heard a thundering of hooves. She looked up, but the nomad camp was calm. She handed the bowl she was washing to a little girl beside her.

"Hold onto this, will you?" she said absently and took two running steps and threw herself into the air. Great brown, dappled wings snapped open and beat down against the warm summer air. A few beats more and she was high enough to soar towards the oncoming pounding. She swooped, catching a thermal to lift her high above the plain.

She was stunned by what she saw. An army squadron, maybe a thousand strong, marching towards the plain where her nomads had settled. The nomads maybe had a total of several hundred, including children and the elders, there was no way they'd get away without being slaughtered, if that's what these soldiers desired.

Elizaveta circled down, hovering before the assembled ranks. She summoned her loudest voice and shouted, "Soldiers of the mountains, some of my people have settled on the plains ahead; I must ask you to make your way around them so as not to trample them or their camp."

She was met with an unnerving silence. Spilling the air from her wings, she alighted before them. "Who is your commander? I wish to speak with them."

Silence again. The soldiers glared at the Daemon, armor and swords clinking restlessly.

"Who commands you?" she demanded.

A soft chuckling danced through the ranks. A single, contemptuous laugh that made Elizaveta's blood run cold.

"If it isn't the little rat herself," said a cool voice emerging from the ranks of soldiers. The goddess emerged, magnificent in scarlet plate and her sword gleaming at her side. She was dressed for battle whereas Elizaveta wore nothing but her flying leathers.

"Daka."

"Elizaveta."

"What do you want with my people?"

"You're people," Daka simpered. "I didn't realize those worthless heretics could be considered people."

Elizaveta narrowed her eyes but refused to give into the taunt. She glared at Daka then turned to leave. The war goddess, having been bored by the taunts already, lunged, drawing her sword with a grating hiss. She swung at the Daemon, who twisted to the side and buffeted Daka with a heavy wing. Daka recovered effortlessly and swung at Elizaveta's head.

With a small gasp, the Daemon ducked and, though she hated to retreat, she had no weapon with which to defend herself. She dashed to the side and let her wings snap open and catch the air. With a final shriek, Daka leapt for her only to miss by several hand-spans. The edges of Elizaveta's wings caught the goddess on the down stroke, knocking her back to earth. A few wing beats later and she was skimming the grassy fields, flying as as fast as her wings could carry her. She fluttered to a stop midair, above the calm camp.

Her people looked up at her with confusion and a bit of fear. She touched down in front of the camp, where the clan leaders and their families were circled around. She rested her fingers against the long grass as her wings slumped on the ground. The matriarch waited for Elizaveta to regain her breath.

"Coming… Soldier's… several hundred—maybe a thousand… flee… need to," she panted.

The alarmed matriarch shouted a warning that spread like wildfire through the camp. Elizaveta straightened and was about to take to the air again when she felt metal slice and burn through her side accompanied by a manic shriek. Daka slide to a halt before spinning back to Elizaveta. With a cruel smile she flung herself at the Daemon who managed to deflect the most of the blow.

Elizaveta's mind clouded with the pain smoldering in her side. She forced it down and manged to focus on the whirlwind coming at her. Daka moved with the rage of a brushfire, wild and uncontainable and Elizaveta couldn't find a her footing to strike back. She weaved, slapping Daka with edges of her speckled wings, but she couldn't manage to knock the goddess off balance for long enough to gain the advantage.

Daka rushed the Daemon again, but was knocked off course by a screeching body. The young woman who had given Elizaveta her stew rammed into Daka, throwing both of them to the ground.

"How dare you attack the _Anima_! How dare you! How dare you!"

Daka rolled, regaining her feet and held the thrashing woman by the hair. She turned to the gathering crowd.

"This is what happens to heretics," she spat, and with practiced efficiency, twisted the woman's neck and threw her to the ground. The mob fell silent, grief and anger welling up within them, though the goddess' voice held them as if enchanted.

"An army is marching on these plains as I speak, a thousand strong. Do you really think you can do anything against them?" she sneered.

Elizaveta stared down at the dead woman in horror and sorrow. Fury welled up in her at Daka, always Daka; she would pay for that unnecessary death. With a battle cry, she grabbed the polished wooden handle of an abandoned cooking pan and swung. Daka turned, startled, and took the blow to the shoulder. She cried out in pain but drew her sword and stabbed at Elizaveta, who parried with the flat bottom of the pan and skipped backwards, drawing Daka away from her people and to where she could use her wings to their fullest.

The army had reached the camp. The nomads took up Elizaveta's battle cry and rushed the surprised soldiers armed with iron cookware and long hunting knives. Their ferocity made the well-trained army stumble, though they held their ground.

With a satisfied glance at the nomads, Elizaveta readjusted her grip on the cooking pan, using two hands to grip the wooden handle but careful to avoid the iron pan itself. She stretched out her wings, nearly doubling her own height as she glared at Daka.

The goddess leapt and darted around the Daemon, attacking as fast as she could. Elizaveta danced in and out of reach, for despite the apparent bulk of her eagle wings, they lent her an lightness of foot that Daka couldn't match. She saw the frustration grow in Daka's expression as she failed to land a heavy blow. She used it to her advantage, daring closer and closer to the goddess until she began to become careless with frustration.

Her strategy worked well. Daka had taken several heavy blows from the pan, but she still fought with the deadly energy that made here feared and renowned as a warrior. Eventually Elizaveta slowed, pulling back as her arms trembled from the heavy weight of the pan. She chanced a look to see how her people were faring against Daka's soldiers. The sight was horrifying. Bodies littered the field, both soldier and nomad, though the dead nomads were by far the majority.

As her attention faltered, Daka swung with her sword and Elizaveta barely managed to parry, though the flat of the blade pressed along her forearm, branding the Daemon flesh as it fell away. Elizaveta let out a strangled cry, more eagle than human and jumped into the air.

The soldiers were relentless. The entire clan would die if she didn't do something, so she shot up and let loose a cry that pierced the very fabric of the air. Below Daka clutched her ears at the sound as the winds whipped up and a thunder of hooves broke out from the distant plains. The soldiers' horses reared as eerie whinnies flew on the wind. Across the horizon sprinted a herd of smoky, black shapes. As they approached both soldier and nomad could make out the enormous equine Daemon's as they ran toward their mistress' summons.

* * *

Alfred stumbled into a place that looked just as he'd pictured it. The thick groves of the mountain forest thinned as the reached the yellow-green plains. A creek flowed to his left, bubbling happily as the mountain runoff swelled its waters. He broke into a run and leapt into the sky once he was clear of the trees. He could here the sounds of fighting and made for them.

Staying high enough in the air to be overlooked, he shot towards the battle, though he took the time to marvel at the clear, open sky with it's pleasant thermals and playful breezes. He halted above the body-strewn plain, shoving his fist to his mouth to stop from retching. Despite the fury with which the nomads fought, it was a massacre. The smoking coals from their cooking fires still smoldered, and pots and pans and tents all lay strewn about. Bodies littered the ground, men, women, children, all must have risen to the fight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure shoot past him, and settle in the air above him, beating enormous wings. She let out a terrible, inhuman wail that he had learned to associate with Daemons. When the cry faded into the thin air, he saw a cloud rise through the haze as a mass of lower Daemons galloped forth onto the field to the aid of their mistress.

Alfred tore his eyes from the advancing herd and found Daka, flinching against the sound of the high Daemon's cry. He flew down and found a patch of shrubs where the oncoming Daemons wouldn't notice him. He was about to call out to Daka when Elizaveta swooped down, striking the goddess feet first. Daka cried out in fury and whipped her sword around. Elizaveta, still carried by her downward momentum, couldn't dodge and was too slow to parry. The sword struck her sharply across the back, sizzling as it encountered her flesh and sliced, leaving a weeping wound in its wake.

From his place behind the shrubs, Alfred saw the Daemon fall and Daka raise up triumphant. She waited, content to see Elizaveta's pain linger before she went in for another blow. Alfred was horrified, but he had made a promise to Gilbert, one he thought Francis supported as well, to bring back Daka from her slaughter, and Alfred would keep that promise and try to spare as many lives as were left. He was about to race forth when a hand on his shoulder stopped him and only a well-placed hand over his mouth halted the yelp that threatened to burst out of him.

"You daft fool!" said a voice in a frantic whisper. "What do you think you're doing? Why are you even here?"

Alfred knew that voice, and it was confirmed when Arthur moved to crouch beside him.

"Daka," he whispered. "I need to get her back to Caelei. As soon as possible, before those soldiers murder the entire clan."

Arthur laughed humorlessly. "Not enjoying the blood-fest?" Alfred made a disgusted snort. "I thought not, weak stomach that you have. There's nothing you can do for them at this point."

"There has to be something. I can't just sit here and—"

"Yes, you can and you will." Arthur said. "That cry that Elizaveta sent up? It wasn't just for her lower Daemons. It reached all the high Daemons. Others with be here soon enough. They'll take care of the soldiers. It wouldn't do for you to die in some hopeless charge."

Alfred swept the hair from his eyes and pushed up his glasses. This was Arthur, who had been so distant with him lately, and he seemed concerned for Alfred's safety. However Alfred didn't have time to ponder what it meant. He had a promise to fulfill.

"I need to get Daka back to Caelei."

Arthur was silent, glaring at the still goddess. He didn't have time to waste.

"Fine, I'm not sure if we could kill a goddess anyway. I'll attack her, the other Daemons can deal with the soldiers," he said, glancing up to where the equine Daemons were pushing back Daka's soldiers. "I'll injure her the best I can, then you swoop in and grab her. Get out as fast as possible."

Alfred nodded and Arthur darted out of the brush. Brandishing a spear Alfred hadn't noticed he'd been holding. With silent speed he threw himself at Daka, stone spearhead clanging against her scarlet armor. Daka tumbled forward, caught off guard by the sudden blow. She slashed at Arthur but he ducked and leapt at her again.

Alfred watched on with awe and fear, mildly startled that the concern was for Arthur. He moved with none of Elizaveta's elegant grace, but with abrupt, patternless thrusts and attacks. Daka, worn from her fight with Elizaveta, attacked with chaotic, thrashing swipes of her sword, which Arthur either dodged or caught in the thick wood of the spear shaft. He struck her over and over again, precise and explosive. His attacks did not seek to unnerve or unbalance her, just to hit the same place on her armor over and over until it finally broke. With the screeching of ripping metal, Arthur's jab finally found flesh. Daka cried out, this time in pain, and collapsed, blood soaking the wild grass.

Arthur nodded toward the brush and Alfred burst out and collected the fallen goddess in his arms before flying off. After a final look of understanding between human and Daemon, Alfred whirled away.

Once free of the battlefield, he spun the pendant as Gilbert instructed and called Arlya's name. The moon goddess appeared before him and placed her palm on his shoulder. With a final gust of wind, they were gone.

* * *

Gilbert, Francis, and Pakram greeted them at the gates of Caelei. The sun god remained behind as the others took Daka to her rooms. Alfred stood, pale and exhausted and sick before the god and recounted most of what he had seen, leaving out his interactions with Arthur.

"So it seems we have been thrust into this war before we could fully prepare," the god said with his usual stoicism. "So be it. Arlya, get him to bed."

The goddess tightened her grip but Alfred shrugged out of it. "I can get there myself," he said. And flew slowly to his room. He collapsed on the bed. His last thought before he fell asleep was a vague hope that Arthur was alright.

* * *

**A/N: Once again, I'm sooo sorry for how late this is. April and May tried their hardest to kill me, then June destroyed my inspiration. Ugh... But I remembered why I love to write this story when I finally got to the action in this chapter. So thanks, Z, for the edits and for threatening me with physical violence to get this done.**

**Um, added notes:**

**Yay! I got to introduce Elizaveta, my favorite Hetalia character after Al and Arthur. Wielding a frying pan and everything.  
**

**My attention is now split between this and an original, science fiction story I'm writing, but I plan to finish Amor Fati this summer. **

**That one-shot I promised a long time ago is now a two shot with an omake, but due to some current events in April, I postponed publishing it out of sensitivity for the victims of the terrible tornadoes that happened around that time. But expect it published on the America's Birthday in celebration! ~3**

**As usual, constructive criticism is love. Especially on consistency, since I haven't written this in too long. **

**And thank you all who have fav'd, sub'd and ESPECIALLY commented. You make my life. **

**Now I just need to figure out what to do next...  
**

**~Kitten  
**


	8. Aftermath

**A/N: So I assumed that I would have internet last week, and I was horribly wrong. So I had no Interwebz the last two weeks, though I did write (I've already gotten a good start on the next chapter, it'll be up today or tomorrow). So there's my excuse for not posting sooner. Thanks to everyone who fav'd/sub'd/ and *especially* reviewed. You make my life~ Thanks for the late night beta, Z!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Alfred squirmed under the intense gaze of the sun god. He had been sitting in one place for several hours, explaining what had occurred on the plains to Pakram and Arlya over and over. For long stretches he was left just to sit there, while the two gods whispered behind their hands then asked him to explain or describe something in more detail.

The polished marble of the floor would probably have a dull streak on it by the end of the day, Alfred thought vaguely as he scuffed his boot along the same track of stone. The chair he was supplied with was cold and uncomfortable, but he wasn't allowed to leave until Pakram was satisfied with his story.

He was addressed again: "And you said Daka's attacker came from behind you, through the undergrowth?"

"Yes, sir. I was in the brush so neither Daka nor the Daemons could see me and I could get her when I had a chance. The attacker came from the same place. But couldn't really see, it moved so fast," Alfred lied. He knew exactly who had come to Elizaveta's aid. But the gods didn't have to know about his conversation with Arthur or how Alfred had agreed to let Arthur wound her.

"I see," said Pakram. "You surely saw the manner of the attack, however, as you were watching rather close." Alfred stayed silent. "Describe it. In detail."

Alfred hesitated, then, mind traitorously blank, he settle on the truth. "Fast. Not sweeping or graceful, but explosive. Precise, too."

"Daggers or spear?"

"A spear, I think."

Pakram and Arlya exchanged a concerned look. "Arthur," Arlya said. "So he has joined the war." She flicked her eyes to Alfred, worry shining in them. He shifted under her gaze, back protesting from sitting for too long on the hard stone chair. "This is grave news indeed. I had hoped he would keep his distance until we could easily overpower him."

Pakram nodded in agreement. "Of all the Daemons, he's one of the most dangerous."

Alfred glanced up, confused. "Why? He's less scary than Ivan or Natalia. I'd rather fight him than them."

"All Daemons, much like gods, are different," Arlya explained. "Ivan and Natalia are fearsome because or their brute strength and sheer skill, respectively. Arthur is clever, cunning. He fights tactically and not always by the rules."

Alfred waited for more, but the two gods were silent, staring off into nothing while they pondered their thoughts. Hoping they were finished with him, he cleared his throat and stood.

"May I leave?"

"Yes, Alfred, I have no further need for you," said Pakram.

Alfred stepped out of the marble court and into the late afternoon. He pushed off into the air and made for home. The air in Caelei seemed so flat after his time in the mortal realm, he thought as he flew. It was remarkably still, doing nothing until caught by some living movement. There were no currents or thermals or gusts to aid or hinder him. It would be a relief to be in the mortal realm again tonight.

He touched down on the stairs leading to his room. He was making his way up when a figure appeared before him. It was Gilbert, looking tired and ragged. His eyes were bloodshot and he seemed to sag, as if gravity had begun to pull him harder. Alfred looked up.

"Thank you," Gilbert said, sounding exhausted. "You brought her back."

"I couldn't stop her from getting hurt."

"I know. But she'll recover."

"I'm sorry I couldn't—"

Gilbert held up his hand, silencing Alfred. "No. You did pretty well," he said, a smile almost cracking his weariness. "In fact, you might have been brave. Even with a whole army standing behind you, Daemons aren't to be taken lightly. I would have faced Elizaveta myself, or course, if not for direct orders against it."

"That didn't seem to stop Daka," Alfred muttered.

Gilbert let out a dark chuckle. "No, it didn't. Never has. But Daka is her own authority."

The silence hung between them. Alfred shifted awkwardly, when Gilbert made no sign of speaking, he said, "I have to see him tonight. Arthur, that is."

Gilbert nodded, looking past Alfred. "Why are you telling me? I don't care."

"He's the one who hurt her."

"Is he? I'll have to repay him when we meet in battle."

Something seemed off about the god. His usual smirk was gone, and he lacked the condescension he often showed Alfred, though the latter had slightly subsided since Alfred had come into his role as messenger.

"Gilbert—" Alfred began, only for the god to vanish with a faint swish. With a sigh, he turned up the stairs and entered his room. He hadn't bothered to straighten his blankets this morning when Arlya had come in early to question him. He frowned and left them as they were, picking up his lyre and satchel. He was about to leave when someone coughed behind him. Turning, he saw Arlya herself standing stiffly in the doorway.

"You're still going to see that Daemon tonight?" she asked.

Alfred repressed a sigh. Some iteration of this conversation happened every time he left.

"Yes, I'm playing for Arthur tonight."

"Even after what he did to Daka? If he could have, he would have murdered her."

Alfred ignored that last bit. "Yes, Arlya, I'm going. I have to. And I don't really mind," he said and instantly regretted it. Arlya's eyes narrowed. She swept across the room and grasped Alfred by the shoulders and squeezed.

"You won't go for much longer. First chance I have, I will kill him. He won't have any power over you then. You shouldn't go tonight either," she added, a bit frantic. "Perhaps when you get there you can play half a song, then call me. Your oath will not be broken then."

Alfred struggled out of her clutching grip. "Arlya, I'm going. Now." Before she could lay hand on him again, he was out the door and into the air.

The goddess stood in empty room. She sunk onto the bed. "My boy, my boy. What is happening to my baby boy?" she wondered. After a moment she looked up, a small smile on her face. "Oh course," she said. "He's protecting me. He doesn't really want to go. Just putting on a brave face so I won't worry. My wonderful baby boy."

She stood, chuckling to herself as she straightened the blankets on Alfred's bed. With a final pat, as if the boy was in them, she turned to leave.

* * *

Gilbert appeared in a garden and glared at the flowers as he waited for his presence to be acknowledged. After a few moments, Francis sauntered forth between rows of rose bushes. He smirked when he saw Gilbert.

"Ah, my friend. I've been expecting you. Pull over the table and chairs, I'll fetch us some drinks."

Gilbert stayed silent but did as he was told. He sat down at the glass garden table and leaned on his elbows as he awaited Francis and his never-ending supply of alcohol.

Francis returned and poured Gilbert a straight shot but mixed his own drink. As he swirled it, he said, "So, you are worried about Daka, no? I wouldn't worry too much, she'll recover, even if it's not fast enough for your liking."

Gilbert downed the shot and slacked his glass against the table. "I'm not worried."

Francis raised his eyebrows; Gilbert was trying to sound unconcerned and failing to Francis' trained ear. "You say that, Gil, but you don't mean it."

"You need to give me much more to drink before you can expect a conversation about feelings, Francis."

With a chuckle, Francis complied, filling his glass. Gilbert knocked it back. "Sometimes I wish I were human. It takes way too much of this stuff to do anything to me."

"So it does."

Gilbert glared at Francis, who swirled his glass but had not touched its contents. "What are you thinking about. You're supposed to be helping me with my problems, O god of love."

Francis frowned, choosing his words carefully. "I am almost… relived that Daka is incapacitated for the time being. Her armies won't move without her direct orders."

Gilbert stood, slamming his glass onto the table. It shattered. "You dare say something so treacherous?" he shouted. "You have reason to hate them more than of any of us. Are you going soft?"

"If soft is weary of this conflict, then yes. I suppose so. What has it been, Gil, an age?"

"An age since they robbed you of your most precious gift."

Francis flinched but carried on. "Even so. All this destruction will not bring my music back. Besides, let us not pretend that I was the sole cause of this war. The theft of my music was an excuse."

Gilbert turned his back, disgusted and spat on the ground. "You were never much of a fighter. Throw some blood at you and you'll run back here to your little garden and hide."

"I don't think you understand, Gilbert," Francis hissed. "Daka murdered an entire clan of people yesterday. A people you respect and care for— don't deny it, you admire them. Their freedom and the bonds they share with their animals, your animals." Gilbert pushed away from the table, retreating from Francis' words.

"And she killed them," Francis continued, rising to follow. "Murdered them in cold blood, all because they have the favor of a Daemon."

"Some friend you are," Gilbert said, whipping around, his voice oddly high. "Declaring things you know nothing about. I don't know why I even came here." And with a final glare, he vanished.

Francis pushed in their chairs and picked up their glasses. "I hope you'll see soon, my friend," he said to where Gilbert had been sitting.

* * *

Alfred touched down on the peak of a hill, relieved to be away from Caelei for awhile. The wind was damp and just barely warm, and high, stone-grey clouds blocked the sky as far as the eye could see.

The green rolling hills were dotted with purple and brown as heather and gorse grew wild in the relative warmth of early summer. Alfred stared out as he stretched trying to loosen his muscles stiff from sitting.

"You're a bit early today," said a voice from behind him.

He startled and turned to see Arthur, who had arrived silently. The Daemon came up beside him to look out over the hills. Alfred caught some emotion in his eyes, though it was guarded and indecipherable. After a moment, he blinked out of his thoughts and turned to lead Alfred a little ways to were he had collected some firewood. After setting up the skeleton of the fire, he motioned for Alfred to begin.

Alfred sighed. It seemed that yesterday hadn't made Arthur any less reserved with him. The Daemon sat across the hilltop looking off into the distance as Alfred played, saying nothing. When night fell, he began to make the fire in the same silence.

Shifting, Alfred tried to find a more comfortable position, but he was restless and the damp air was chilling him. He stopped playing. Arthur looked up, frowning.

"Why did you stop?" he asked.

"Do you think I could do something else for a little while? I need to move."

Arthur frowned but nodded. "I suppose. We could walk, if you'd like."

Alfred stood, shaking out his arms and fingers. He offered a hand to Arthur, who ignored it and stood on his own. Arthur lead the way down the hillside and Alfred followed beside him. When Arthur made no sign of speaking, Alfred decided to.

"Daka won't be able to go anywhere for awhile."

Arthur snorted. Alfred continued.

"They— the gods— know it was you."

Arthur did not break his stride. "Did you tell them?"

"Not directly. I said I didn't see who you were, but then they asked me to describe how you fought."

"I do have a rather distinctive style," Arthur said with a small smirk. "But why did you lie before that? Why didn't you say it was me?"

"Arlya's already against me coming here. I thought if she knew it was you who did that to a goddess, she would actually stop me from seeing you."

"Yet you were honest about my fighting style." asked Arthur, bemused.

"I was under pressure," Alfred said defensively. "And I didn't know they'd get it that fast. And just for the record, Arlya was very close to chaining me up and not letting me come."

Arthur chuckled as he found a path that meandered between the hills; they walked side-by-side, Alfred squinting at the path in the dark, for the only light came from the moon that just barely shone through the clouds. Arthur was quiet for awhile before speaking again.

"You wanted to come to see me?" he asked, trying to keep his tone level.

Alfred was oblivious to the weight of the question. "Sure. I like it here. It's so alive, and it's nice to be away from the gods for awhile."

"Oh." Arthur couldn't quite mask his disappointment.

"Um… Were you expecting a different answer?"

"I wasn't expecting any particular answer," said Arthur irritably and looked up at the sky. It was hard for Alfred to tell, but Arthur's face appeared a bit flushed in the pale half-light.

Suddenly, clear sky dotted with stars broke through the clouds. Arthur examined them awhile before stopping.

"It's getting late," he said, "The Rabbit has already risen and the Sparrow is starting to peak over the horizon."

Alfred stopped and stared at Arthur as if he had spoken some other language. "What?"

Arthur pointed up to the sky. Alfred's eyes widened at the sight. There were a few stars in Caelei, but none so bright and not nearly as many. As the last of the clouds dissipated, stars shone like crystal scattered across the night.

"It's so beautiful," he whispered.

Arthur looked at him, confused. "I suppose it is rather magnificent."

"I've never seen anything like it."

"You've never seen anything like the night sky?"

"This is normal?" Alfred asked, amazed.

"Er, yes. Well, normal for a clear night. Come on, back to the fire now, it's getting late."

Arthur had to pull Alfred along, as he wouldn't stop staring up at the heavens. When they returned, all Alfred wanted to do was look.

"What did you mean back there? Rabbit? Sparrow? What are those?" Alfred asked as Arthur got the fire going. Once it was crackling away, Arthur sat down beside Alfred and pointed to a bright cluster of stars high over the horizon. The three brightest made a "V" while two others came down in an angled line.

"They're constellations, star pictures if you will. See those five bright stars? They make up Laurel, the Rabbit."

Alfred squinted long and hard to where Arthur was pointing. "I don't see a rabbit anywhere," he said finally.

"You have to use your imagination. The three in the V-shape make the ears while the other two mark the body. See, she's sitting up."

"That's not a rabbit. It looks like some bent stick or something."

"A bent stick?" Arthur repeated. "That's no way to describe a heroic lady."

"So now the stick rabbit is heroic? I don't get it."

Arthur sighed and looked up at the sky. "No, you idiot. Laurel was once a woman. A beautiful woman from the plains, with long hair the color of the sun and large, black eyes that were pools to look into," Arthur began and Alfred was instantly captured by the soft, well-practiced words that rolled off his tongue.

"One day, a soldier from the city of Aenea came down and found Laurel amongst the wild grasses with her horses. Immediately he desired her for her beauty and gentle nature. But she spurned his advances, preferring to stay in plains as a free woman.

"One night, the soldier and his friends were out drinking, and the soldier began to tell of the Beauty of the plains, whom he wanted for his wife. Drunk beyond reason, they decided to ride to the camp of the plains dwellers and seize Laurel for the soldier. When they arrived, the soldier demanded Laurel accompany him back to Aenea, but once again she refused.

"Furious, the solder and his friends threatened to get violent, and seized Laurel's younger sister and held her at spear point. Finally, to spare her sister, Laurel agreed to go with them. They rode for many days before finally arriving back in Aenea. Within the city walls, Laurel turned pale and sickly, for there were no great howling winds and the sunlight was pale and dim from within the town houses. However, she retained an austere beauty and thus, the desire of the soldier. Finally one night, she could take the confines of the city no more. She ran out onto the high walls, intending to throw herself off, for she could not leave without the soldier following her and bringing her back. In the moment of her despair, a ghostly light shone before her and from it appeared the High Daemon of the plains, patron to her people.

"'My fair daughter, do not weep, for I come to aid you,' the Daemon said with a sweet, soothing voice. 'But how can you help me?' Laurel asked. 'Even if I return home, there is nothing to stop the soldier from taking me again.'"

Arthur glanced at Alfred, who watched him with undivided attention, eyes wide. Satisfied, he continued. "Shouts echoed behind them from the sleeping city as the soldier realized his prize was gone. Men were running up the city battlements, shouting as the recognized Laurel. She turned back to the Daemon, eyes glimmering with the faintest hope. The Daemon reached out her hand and took the woman into her bright light. A moment later, they were on the open plains, but the Daemon held not a woman in her arms, but a tawny rabbit with huge black eyes. The Daemon placed her on the ground and stroked her ears. 'Now go, daughter, they cannot find you now.'

"The rabbit blinked and ran off, towards home, the threat of confinement gone forever," Arthur concluded. He looked to Alfred, who was oddly silent. Suddenly self-conscious, he fidgeted as he waited for a response.

"So that's where rabbits come from?" Alfred asked finally.

Arthur scoffed. "Of course not. No god or Daemon has that kind of power to transform someone. It's a human story, and one that I quite fancy. Passed down by the nomads of the plains, obviously."

Alfred lapsed into thoughtful silence and looked up at the sky. A few wisps of cloud floated across it, warning of more grey skies to come. "So do all the stars have stories?" he asked.

"Good heavens, no. There are too many. Constellations usually do, but those are only the few stars that are useful for navigating or telling the time."

"And you know them?"

"I know many of them."

"Will you tell me?"

"No. That wasn't part of the deal," Arthur said sharply. "You play for me. That is what I get for sparing you."

Alfred deflated, disappointed. He picked a particularly mournful tune of his lyre. Arthur gave a put-upon sigh.

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "I suppose I could share a few. But you still come here first and foremost to play for me. Remember that. I reserve the right to—"

He was interrupted as Alfred grabbed his shoulders and awkwardly hugged him. With a yelp he tried to wriggle away, but Alfred's hold was stronger than he expected.

"Thank you," Alfred said, privately celebrating that his guilt trip had worked. "I want to know everything about the sky. The stars, how to read them and see rabbits out of bent sticks. Maybe I'll see them up close some day!"

"Alright. Fine. Whatever- but would you kindly get off me!" Arthur shouted, having given up trying to extract himself from Alfred. "I'll tell you about them, but some other time. You have a lot of music to make up tonight already. Now play."

Still grinning, Alfred let his arms drop and began to play. Arthur leaned back on the grass, contentment spreading through him as he lay, gazing up at the stars. Alfred looked over and smiled to himself. Arthur's reservations seemed to have vanished, at least for the time being, and Alfred found that he was happy for it. Eventually, after insisting that he was just resting his eyes for a moment, he fell asleep. Once be began to snore softly, Arthur rose to his feet and stood a moment on the flickering firelight before moving to smother the flames with the loose, moist soil. With a final glance at the gathering clouds in the sky and a small, fond smile, he vanished, leaving Alfred alone on the hillside.

* * *

Alfred was woken by gentle fingers threading through his hair and looked up, blinking in the bright though overcast morning, into Arlya's face. She was frowning and pondering the landscape, as if it had personally wronged her. Alfred shifted into a sitting position, yawning.

"Morning."

"Good morning, Alfred."

"You found me quickly," he said. Arlya shrugged then changed the subject.

"You spent the night on the cold hard ground. Again. Why didn't you call for me?"

"Fell asleep without meaning to."

She sighed. "The least that Daemon could do would be to give you something soft to sleep on."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Arlya, I'm fine. I can sleep on the ground or with no blanket without dying."

"But you get cold so easily."

"Can we just go?" Alfred asked. It was too early for this discussion.

"Yes, let us. You can get cleaned up then," she said. Alfred took her arm with a final roll of his eyes and vanished from the human realm.

* * *

**A/N: Once again, please leave a review if you have any encouragement/critiques/corrections (I edited this at 1:30 in the morning, so I'm sure there are some little things)/speculations or just to let me know that people are enjoy reading what I'm writing as much as I enjoy writing it. **

**So as you might have read on my other story, I'm trying to figure out Live Journal so I can post this and Absoltum to the USUK community. But I have no idea how to do anything on LJ, so if you could PM me or leave it in a review, that would be amazing and I'd love you forever. **

**~Kitten**


	9. Released

**A/N: Thanks to those of you who reviewed, you really make my life. I love you all -squeezes-. So I wrote this, and it turned out /really/ chaotic and scatterbrained. So I had to do one of the heaviest revisions since the first chapter, which I really didn't want to do. But I'm much happier with how this turned out now. Thanks to Yumishun for the LJ help. No thanks to LJ for breaking all week -.-;; Thanks for beta'ing (twice), Z, you're the best. **

**Oh, and if you couldn't tell, Katerina is Ukraine, and Katya is a diminutive of Katerina. **

**Warnings: violence and death  
**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

The day started out normally enough: the sun woke Alfred too early for his liking and he dragged himself out to meet Gilbert for combat practice. Arlya still forbade him anything more than two hunting daggers, but with practice, Alfred was becoming rather skilled with them for Gilbert was an effective teacher and now much more friendly after Daka's return. The goddess was still bedridden, and would be so for at least another week, and she wouldn't be at her full strength for a long time. However, even drained and injured, her skill would make her formidable in the Daemon War.

Gilbert and Alfred were sitting in the shade of the mountain hollow where they practiced when Pakram appeared, flanked by Francis and the grey, stern god of the household, Vahnic. The sun god was clad in bright plate armor with a gleaming broadsword at his belt. He also seemed to shine with an inner light as his power waxed with the lengthening days. Vahnic wore similar, though his armor was a more utilitarian grey-silver, a match to his his rough, lined face, than the shining gold of the sun god. Francis was as ostentatious as ever: a bright blue cape hung over his glittering mail, and one hand was one his gold-hilted sword, which upon examination was closer to a foil than the heavy sabers the other gods carried.

"The time has come for _organized_ offensive measures," said Pakram while Gilbert and Alfred rose to their feet. "Today we mean to eliminate one of the High Daemons and claim the first victory of the war. Our power grows, and now is the time to end this series of stalemates."

"Who are we going after?" asked Gilbert. "I don't think it's a good idea to go after the stronger High Daemons quite yet. At least, not until Daka can fight with us."

"Agreed, Gilbert," said Pakram, beginning to pace. "Though there are merits to going after Ivan or Arthur and eliminating them, I think without a plan to keep them in place, they'd flee rather than fight."

Vahnic muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "cowards" and earned a glare from Pakram.

"It is not cowardice on their part but merely survival instinct, though it is frustrating to us," Pakram reasoned. "No, I think our best chance is to ambush the most powerful when they come to the aid of another. However, today we desire a clear victory, as much a symbolic victory as anything else. I've heard stories that the High Daemon of the southern forests is weak from a cruel winter and a dry spring."

Gilbert stood and flicked out his hunting daggers, flipping them with practiced hands. "Katerina?" he asked. "She's always been weak, though she _is_ close with Ivan and Natalia, so I suppose her death could help undermine them emotionally. Though even weakened, High Daemons are hard to kill. How are we supposed to stop her from calling for help?"

"We'll have to deal with that as if comes. But she's our best choice for a relatively easy victory." The sun god turned to Alfred, who had sat, listening to the conversation with a mixture of exhilaration but mostly queasiness. "We could use your skills, Alfred. Do you wish to accompany us?"

Alfred jerked slightly upon address. His initial gut reaction was a firm "no," as no matter how they phrased or justified it, they were planning murder. It rubbed Alfred the wrong way. He cleared his throat and said in an unsteady voice, "I don't know. This Daemon, Katerina, hasn't really done anything, has she?"

His statement caused all four gods to stare at him, bafflement in all their eyes, whether because of his statement or that he had voiced dissent it was hard to tell. Alfred looked as his feet and shuffled until Vahnic's nervous laugh broke the silence.

"Come on, stupid boy; sure, she hasn't done anything, but that doesn't mean she won't. We need that forest for land and timber, and her death will be a blow against the Daemons, which is more important than whether or not she herself is an actual threat."

Alfred wasn't convinced and looked to Francis for help, but the god was staring straight in front of him, expression indiscernible. A different hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up at Gilbert, who was smiling down at him.

"Come on Alfred," he said. "This will be our first real victory. You want to be a part of it, don't you? Just think: Alfred, the warrior of the gods, respected and loved. Don't you want to be a hero?" Alfred found himself nodding slowly. Maybe if he could be a hero now, he might finally prove himself worthy to live among the gods. That would be worth the sickness in his stomach, he told himself.

"You're right, Gilbert. I'll come," he said, though his voice was still soft and unsure. Vahnic snorted. Alfred bristled at the dismissive gesture. He wouldn't be weak, not now.

His mind made up, he tried to force a confident grin and a nod, though it came out as more of a twitch. Alfred walked to Pakram, who would take him to their destination. He completely missed the furious and betrayed glare Francis sent Gilbert.

Alfred landed with a small crunch of fallen leaves. He looked around the sun-dappled forest. It was different than the other forest he'd been in around Aenea. Rather than made up of dark, shadowy evergreens, this forest was thick with great oak and birch trees, their long-stemmed leaves rustling in the summer breeze and dull green moss hanging off their branches like shawls. The ground between the trees was thick with shrubby undergrowth, filling the air with their heavy, hazy scent.

The five landed, taking in the scenery. There was no sign of the Daemon. Only a hush that seemed to weigh across their shoulders, making movement sluggish and clumsy.

"She should be nearby," Pakram said, looking through the trees. "Split up, and send up a signal if you find her. A whistle should do, nothing to startle her. But make it loud."

The four gods split off through the trees leaving Alfred in the clearing. Not knowing what else to do, he took to the air and headed east, keeping an eye out for the Daemon in the forest below. The sun rose to its zenith and bore down on him, until the heat was too much and he sought some relief down by a little stream that ran through two great granite boulders. As he splashed his face, he heard a muffled voice approaching from the other side of the spring. Panicking, he stumbled backwards into the undergrowth and hid, waiting to see whom it was.

A woman came into view, tall and wearing greyish-blue skirt beneath a white tunic. She swung a basket at her side, filled to the brim with food. Her light hair was cropped short and was pulled back by a leather band. She could have been described as plain except for her feet, which were graceful canine paws the bushy, brownish-grey tail that swept behind her. And her chest. Alfred watched in slight fascination as she bounced along past him, chanting some rhyme to herself.

Alfred knew he should send up the whistle, as here was the High Daemon right in front of him, but curiosity got the better of him. He watched her take a large, sleek fish and a bone knife out of her basket. She cleaned the fish with practiced hands and placed it in a small, clay pot she extracted from the basket before starting on the vegetables she had brought. Once finished, She walked to the river and rinsed her hands off. It was then Alfred caught a glimpse of something on her arms. Craning to get a better view, he spotted a rash of dark blisters running over her hands and up her arms, as if she had been burned.

Whatever it was, if obviously pained her, Alfred noticed as he watched how gingerly she moved, careful not to rub anything too roughly against her skin. As he sat, hidden, it dawned on him that this was the target, the one they were here to get rid of. Murder, Alfred corrected himself, growing nauseous. They were here to murder her.

He wet his lips, trying to muster up the will to summon the others, be a hero like Gilbert had said. But he couldn't do it. He was crouched, rooted between the bushes, staring at his victim. Eventually, he began to back away, leaving the Daemon behind, but froze when he heard a commotion from the woods that didn't come from him. The Daemon heard it too.

"Ivan?" she called. "Natalia? Is that you? You're both a little early, but you can help me with the _yushka_." When there was no response, she stood and took a step towards the noise. "Ivan?"

A dull grey blur shot out of the trees and knocked the Daemon down. She let out a faint cry as she hit the ground and rolled. A large boot pinned one of her injured wrists to the ground and the other was trapped beneath her. Vahnic stood above her and drew his sword, tilting her head up with its point. Her flesh hissed at the contact.

"Hello Katerina," he said, pleasantly, leaning down over her. "It's been awhile since we've spoken."

Alfred could hear nothing but her heavy panting. He wanted to help her, but couldn't figure out how. The god spoke again.

"I see you've been dealing with the forest fires. I thought even something like you would have sense enough to keep yourself from burning. I guess you're just stupid. The world won't miss you much."

Alfred scooted back, and a branch snapped beneath him. Vahnic spun and without lifting his weight off Katerina's wrist. "Show yourself!" he shouted.

Alfred edged out of the brush, not meeting Vahnic's eyes. "Useless," he muttered and Alfred stiffened and raised his head. He wasn't useless. He opened his mouth to retort when a new voice rang through the clearing.

"Katya?" it called. "Katerina, Natalia and I have arrived. We brought lots of good food with us." A massive figure broke through the trees into the clearing. It was Ivan, standing at his impressive height, though with a sincere, small smile half hidden in his thick, cream-colored coat. He held his own basket in both arms, like a child. Natalia appeared at his side, her face impassive, but lacking the coldness it held during battle.

Ivan froze at the sight and his smile dipped into a confused frown. He dropped the basket, its contents spilling out at his feet as he realized what was happening.

Taken by surprise, Vahnic swung his sword to face Ivan. But as his weight shifted, Katerina twisted her free hand under her, grabbing the bone knife she had used to clean the fish and plunging it into Vahnic's ankle. With a cry, he fell back. Ivan threw himself at the god, only to be driven off by the flashing of steal.

Vahnic had an advantage, as he was armed to fight, but he was outnumbered. He'd need the other gods to help if he wanted to complete the goal. "Alfred!" he shouted back to the petrified messenger, "Get the others! Get up, dammit, and whistle for them, you useless boy!"

Alfred was shocked into action by the words. He made a dash past the god towards the boulders lining the stream so he could push off. As he took his first leap towards them, a force slammed into him from behind, sending him head first onto the boulder. He turned upward, blinking away the black specks that swarmed his vision. He saw Natalia regain her balance, then one of her hands reached for her stone dagger. She lunged at him, snarling. Panicking, Alfred rolled off the boulder and fell into the face-first into the stream.

He flailed in the water, trying to find purchase with his hands and feet on the stony riverbed, trying to find anything he could push against. But when his boot finally found a grip, he felt something jagged lodge itself just over his shoulder blade. He gasped, inhaling more water than air, and thrashed against Natalia. She lost her footing, and the knife slipped down Alfred's side, leaving a long but relatively shallow gash. He found the foothold again and threw him into the air, escaping his assailant.

Alfred rose up, and curled into a ball in midair, fingers groping against his side as they tried to staunch the blood that stained his ripped tunic. He tried to focus, fighting through the nausea that accompanied the pain.

Vahnic was down there, he thought. He would be torn to shreds alone. As much as he dislike the god, he couldn't—wouldn't stand by while that happened. He tried to whistle, and thought he might have managed it, though it felt as if cotton had been stuffed in his ears. Worried that he might not have been heard, he flew off in search of the other gods, a steady drip of blood following him.

He flew through the treetops, though his vision swam, and the nausea was becoming too much to bear. He lowered himself onto a branch and clutched the trunk as if his life depended on it. His fingers reached across his back and pressed experimentally against his side. Thankfully, only the stab in his shoulder was deep, though the shallow gash bled freely. He tried moving his shoulder to assess the damage. The first twitch sent him over the edge. He clung to the trunk with his good arm as he emptied his stomach contents onto the ground below.

Bracing himself, he eased himself out of his tunic, not too difficult as it had been slashed along with his side. With trembling hands, he ripped it along the seams until it was just one long strip. He was never sure quite how he managed to fight the smoldering ache in his side long enough to wrap his torso as tightly as he could manage. Though the tunic was already soaked with blood, the pressure took the harshest edge off the pain. When he was finished, he leaned against the tree trunk, panting.

He must dozed off, because awhile later, he awoke horribly disoriented and confused, the memories of the past hours a jumbled blur. There was a commotion in the forest ahead. Piecing together what he could, he realized the gods must still be there, fighting. The fabric was still bound around his torso and showed no sign of slipping as he rose into the air. Nevertheless, as he flew, he was careful to stay as steady as possible.

As he approached the scene, he slowed and stopped, shaking his head. The battle was raging below him. He felt cold dread pool in his gut as he looked on.

Though outnumbered and with no proper weapons, the Daemons were holding their own. They moved with such ease over the land, as if it were a part of them, which the gods simply could not keep up; however, he noticed Katerina had become sluggish and her movements pained. She held only the bone knife in her trembling hands, but she faced the gods nonetheless.

Of the gods, Francis was faring the worst. He was bleeding from a slash across his temple and had to keep wiping the blood from his eyes. Natalia seemed to have sensed his weariness and focused her attacks on him.

She was a flurry of movement, advancing on Francis with the one stone dagger she always kept with her. He lost ground, edging back towards the boulders the stream flowed through. Despite the advantage the metal of the sword gave him, the most he could manage was to keep her from landing a direct hit. Then his back hit the cold stone, and Natalia got under his guard and knocked the sword from his hand, not flinching as it brushed her bare arm.

Alfred looked on from above as the sword clattered to the ground. Natalia struck with purpose and cold, hollow fury. Alfred didn't know if she could actually kill a god, but she certainly could maim him, for a long time if not permanently. One thought broke his frantic, confused mind. Francis was about to be hurt; Francis who was his friend. He remembered Gilbert saying something about heroes earlier. He wanted to be a hero.

As Natalia raised her dagger, Alfred dropped from the sky between her and Francis. She was knocked off balance and her strike went wild, finding only air. As Alfred hit the ground, he overbalanced and toppled over, away from Natalia.

"Alfred!" shouted Francis kneeling beside him. "What happened to you?"

Before Alfred could respond, Natalia regained her footing and lunged knocking Francis aside as she made for Alfred. The god let out a startled yelp and skidded across the ground, dazed. Natalia crouched beside Alfred, her eyes full of icy fury. She grabbed his injured arm and yanked him up. Alfred cried out as he felt the muscle rip, flooding him with a sharp, insistent pain that overwhelmed the dull, pulsing pain for before. His legs gave out under him and he dangled from her grasp, not noticing as she raised her dagger in her free hand. She swung it down when her own wrist was caught.

"How dare you touch him, you filth," growled Arlya, her white, braided hair glowing in the sunlight. Alfred stared up at her, uncomprehending. Arlya? How did she—?

Natalia struggled and managed to shove herself away from Arlya's grasp, dropping Alfred, who lay where he fell, staring out into the clearing. Natalia readjusted her grip on the dagger before leaping forward at the unarmed goddess. Arlya tried to dodge but Natalia spun at the last second and threw Arlya into the rocks. She landed with a heavy crunch and crack of her head as it snapped against the granite.

From across the clearing, Pakram saw his wife appear, then fall. He roared, abandoning his duel with Ivan, leaving him to Gilbert, and ran at Natalia brandishing his sword. She had ducked out of his path and was about to strike in retaliation when Vahnic gave a triumphant shout. He had his sword pressed into Katerina's neck.

"Got you now," he said.

Ivan flung Gilbert to the side, ignoring his sword and raced at Vahnic. "Katya!" he shouted. "Don't worry, Katya, I'll get you free." He had almost reached her when Natalia screeched as Francis recovered himself, crept up from behind, and caught her around the waist.

"Ivan, stop," the Francis warned, containing the thrashing Daemon with his arm and sword. "Hurt anyone else and she dies."

Ivan froze, trying to find a way out. He looked between Katerina and Natalia, wanting to save them both.

"Yes, that's right. Attack one of us, the other dies."

"Ivan," Katerina shouted, "Get Natalia and leave."

Ivan shook his head. "No!" he shouted. "I won't leave you here."

"Ivan, escape. I am too weary to flee, for I do not think I can manage to Alter or vanish. But you can and must get away."

Ivan's eyes began to water. "No! Katya—"

Katerina tilted towards Natalia.

"Natalia, vanish! You are strong yet."

"If she vanishes, Katerina will be killed, Ivan. You leave her to die."

"Natalia, do it!" Katerina shouted.

Natalia's eyes glittered, unsure and frightened.

"Please…"

Natalia vanished from Francis' grasp, reappearing behind Ivan who stared at Katerina with horror. With the heel of her dagger, Natalia landed a well-aimed blow on the back of his neck. She caught him as he crumpled into a heap and shifted him onto her rapidly changing body. With a final snarl she Altered her form into that of her lower Daemons. She stood, a shadowy Wolf-Daemon, and then leapt into the woods, Ivan on her back.

Pakram glared at the retreating shape, fuming. He turned to Vahnic, who held still held Katerina.

"We must amke good on our word then," he whispered, and with a soft swish, lifted his sword and faced Katerina. He examined her, panting and bloody. Vahnic's sword had branded her across the throat, but though her eyes watered, she did not weep. He raised the sword above him, bringing with down over her head, where it lodged in her skull. Vahnic released her, and she fell to the ground with a dull _thud_. Pakram jerked the sword from her body then turned from the body as it gave a last shuddering breath. She lay on her back, eyes hollow but open, tears held in to the last.

The sun god sheathed his bloody sword and found Arlya where she had fallen. She breathed too shallowly, and blood trickled through her hair and down her neck, staining her silver shift. He scooped her up and vanished, Vahnic and Gilbert following.

Francis returned to Alfred's side, fearing the worst. But although he lay still, his eyes were open and his breath came in ragged gasps. Sighing with relief, Francis picked him up, a bit of a struggle as Alfred was almost as big as he was, and took him back to Caelei where he could be properly attended to.

* * *

Alfred passed days and days in a dark haze between sleep and waking, only really aware of the pain that grew and faded in a seemingly endless cycle. Finally the haze began to clear, and Alfred awoke into full consciousness for the first time. He rolled over with a moan.

"Alfred?" came a voice from beside his bed. Francis was sitting, a book in hand. He looked tired, a bit battered, and very relieved to see Alfred awake.

"Francis? What day am I?" he asked, words horribly slurred.

"… Pardon?"

"Day?"

"You have been unconscious for over a week, if that's what you're asking. Nine days to be precise."

Alfred groaned. His tunic was gone but his entire chest was wrapped in white cloth bandages. The wounds on his back still hurt, but had faded enough to be bearable. His head hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, a dull, persistent pain that pulsed in time with his heart.

Apparently, he mentioned the pain out loud. Francis offered him a cup of water and said, "I'm not surprised. You had one of the worst concussions I've seen. You and Arlya both. Natalia will pay for this."

"Arlya?" Alfred asked, trying to remember.

"She saved you. I don't know how she knew to find you at that moment, but I'm glad she did."

"Francis?"

"What is it?"

"Hungry. Really hungry."

Francis rolled his eyes and stood to fetch something. "I'm glad to see you are getting back to yourself, Alfred, but when I return, I expect complete sentences."

Alfred hummed in response and took in his surroundings. He was in his room, satchel and lyre at the foot of the bed where he had left them. He pulled his lyre close to him and strummed it. His fingers trembled, and he wondered if he'd be able to play for Arthur their next meeting.

Next time. Alfred's heart skipped a beat. How many days had he been unconscious? Francis had said nine days, so when would he have to go back?

A cold chill crept down his spine. The battle had been five days after his visit with Arthur. It had been two weeks, to the day. He needed to get there, now. If he didn't, he would face the consequences. he opened his palm and saw the scarred-over slash that marked his blood oath. If he didn't fulfill it, he would die. He rolled out of the bed and grabbed his lyre. His head swam again as he stood. Pulling on his boots, he flew to the gates of Caelei, leaving the room empty for when Francis returned.

Alfred stopped before the gates, landing and walking through it, making sure to keep the clear image of the hilltop where he and Arthur met. As he passed through, the warmth of Caelei was instantly sapped from him as he emerged into a cool, heavy rain. He looked around, though the persistent rain made it hard to see. The broken hills of the moor surrounded him, soil turning to deep brown sludge.

He felt the muscles in his back twitch and protest to their brief exercise, and the slash along his side had opened and was seeping through the bandages. Soon he was soaked and shivering as scarlet bled into the bandages and dripped onto the ground.

The wind whipped around him, plastering his hair to his face as he sunk to his knees, one hand groping to try to keep pressure on his shoulder. His heart hammered. Arthur had to come, had to be expecting him. It had been two weeks, if he didn't play today, he would die as the blood oath demanded.

Panic raced through him as he hugged himself, convinced that Arthur would not come for him. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't hear the voice from behind him.

"You're late. I was worried you wouldn't show," said Arthur playfully. "It's rude to keep people waiting."

He received no response.

"Alfred?" He approached the kneeling human, who was soaked in rain and blood and mouthing something to himself while shaking uncontrollably. "Alfred!" Arthur cried, dropping down to his knees and unfastened his cloak. "Why are you bleeding? What the hell happened?"

Alfred jumped when he felt a warm pressure around him. He stared at Arthur, who was wrapping him in his cloak.

"You came," Alfred whispered.

Arthur looked truly frightened. "Of course I did. I've always come."

"I didn't want to die."

Arthur was now soaked to the skin himself, but hardly cared. "You're not dead. You're not going to be dead, either." He finished tying the cloak around Alfred's shoulders then took his hand and pulled him as quickly as he dared to find some shelter.

They came to a cliff that tapered back into the hillside, so that the ground was dry and sheltered from the wind. Arthur guided Alfred to the back wall and eased him down. Alfred clung to the cloak, still shaking. Arthur would have to start a fire, something to warm him.

Arthur took Alfred's cheek in his hand, tilting his head toward him. Once he had Alfred's eyes he said, "I'm going to get something to warm us up, so I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't you dare move, understand me?" Alfred nodded. "Good," Arthur said, standing. "Just sit still for awhile." He vanished.

Alfred sat alone under the cliff-side in the gathering dark. Five minutes passed, then ten. Alfred fidgeted, worried that he'd been forgotten. After half of an hour passed, he got to his feet in hopes he could find Arthur out in the rain, but before he could make it out from his shelter, he was startled by a shout and the sound of wood clattering to the ground.

"What are you doing?" Arthur shouted, grabbing Alfred's shoulders and herding him to the back to the cliff wall. "I told you to stay still, and you were about to go out into the rain again!"

"You didn't come back."

"Yes I did, you idiot; I'm right here," he said as he picked up a basket beside the wood and took out a covered clay pot, only big enough to hold a single serving. "I admit it took a bit longer than I expected, but not much. Really, Alfred, what the hell happened to you? I've never seen you like this."

Alfred shook his head and refused to answer.

Sighing, Arthur set the pot down beside Alfred and began kindling the fire, which he got burning rather well despite the weather. Once it was crackling, Arthur opened the lid of the pot, revealing a steaming, red stew.

"Eat some of this. It's hot and will warm you up," he said, forcing a spoon towards Alfred, who shook his head and turned away.

"Oh, come now, I didn't make it, if that's what you're worried about. It's good."

Alfred tried a bite and was rewarded with a bright, fruity flavor. Realizing how hungry he was, he took the spoon from Arthur and ate the stew himself. He watched Arthur warm himself by the fire, and felt its heat sink into him too, making him more lucid than he had been for many days.

"What is this?" he asked, indicating the stew. "It's really good."

"It's made from something called a 'tomato,' a fruit that grows in the south. The stew was made by an acquaintance from a nearby town. That was the reason I took a little longer than I expected to get back."

"You have human acquaintances?"

"Of course. Most Daemons do."

Alfred stared into the fire as he finished. After a moment, he said, "I don't suppose you have any more?"

Alfred was surprised when a small, relieved smile broke Arthur's expression. "No, sorry, but you obviously feel better."

"Much."

"Then tell me what happened?" he asked, almost pleadingly.

Alfred was surprised by the question, but, setting the empty pot aside, he recounted what he could remember of the fight in the forest. When he came to Katerina's murder he stopped, feeling sick.

"And…" Arthur prompted, pale and wide-eyed.

"He killed her," Alfred whispered, hugging himself. "She wasn't even a threat, and she was already hurt."

Arthur nodded. "Yes, I've heard that the lower forests have been ravished by fire this summer," he trailed off into silence for a moment. "I can't believe it. Katerina, dead. They've done it. They finally killed one of us. But Katerina? Of all the Daemons…"

"You knew her?"

"Of course, all High Daemons know each other. She never has been—was," he corrected himself with a grimace, "very strong, and I'll admit I've liked others better than her, but she did not deserve to be slaughtered in such a manner. Natalia and Ivan must be heartbroken."

Alfred nodded. He was shaking again. "I can't believe Pakram would do that," he said. "I mean, I knew that's what we were there to do, but I never actually _believed_ someone would die. Or maybe I thought she would deserve to die." Tears leaked out of his eyes. "But she didn't and I couldn't stop it. I was involved! If I hadn't been there, maybe—"

"Stop," Arthur ordered, glaring at Alfred. "Do you really think that the gods wouldn't have managed without you? You may be convenient, but you're not _that_ important to their cause."

Alfred hesitated. "I'm not sure if I should be relieved or insulted."

Arthur chuckled, stood, and joined Alfred against the cliff wall. "Sorry, that was supposed to reassure you. Not that it's very reassuring to be helpless." Alfred nodded, his eyes closing.

They stayed in silence for a long time, listening to the rain that splashed just a little distance away. Suddenly, Alfred sat up with a jerk and pulled out his lyre.

"I've got to play."

"No, not tonight. You're hurt. Just sleep."

"No, I have to play," Alfred insisted. "If I don't the blood oath will kill—"

Arthur turned to Alfred and placed two fingers on his lips silencing him. He seemed to be fighting with himself. After a moment, he looked into Alfred's eyes, his own shining with conflict.

"I…" he began, the halted, as if trying to dislodge something from his throat, "I release you from your oath, Alfred," he said, voice trembling.

"What?"

"I release you. You don't have to play for me tonight, or any night hereafter," said Arthur as he turned his back to Alfred. "I could have killed you tonight," he said, almost to himself. "I won't risk that again. Not for something like this."

Alfred was silent for a moment, Arthur's words sinking in. "Thank you," he whispered. "That means a lot to me."

"I suppose this will be our last meeting then, until the inevitable," Arthur said and smiled sadly to himself.

"What do you mean?"

"We're on opposite sides of a war, Alfred; we'll meet in battle."

"But why is this the last meeting until then?" Alfred asked. Arthur turned back to face him, confused.

"You're released."

"Yes."

Arthur stared at Alfred, trying to understand what he was implying.

"What—?"

"The gods don't have to know that. Goodness, Arthur, just because I don't _have _to come doesn't mean I won't."

"You mean you want to come?"

"Of course I do," Alfred said, poking Arthur on the nose. "I mean, think about it. Arlya was overprotective before. She'll be a terror now. I'll need this just to escape from Caelei, because you can bet she won't let me out willingly. I'll need this, need you. So don't get killed, alright?" He sighed and sunk to the ground, letting his eyes slip shut. He didn't look up to see Arthur stare down at him, flushed scarlet in the firelight.

For a moment, Arthur thought Alfred had fallen asleep until he opened his eyes and looked up.

"Arthur?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Tell me another story. You promised."

Arthur hid fond smile behind his hand. "That's the real reason you're coming back isn't it?" he teased. "You greedy child."

"I'm not a child," Alfred whined.

Reaching over, Arthur patted him on the head, sniggering. "Of course you're not, dear."

Alfred squirmed away from his touch. "Story," he demanded. "Who's the Sparrow? You mention it last time."

"Mentioned _him_," Arthur corrected, drawing his hand back. "It started a few hundred years before Laurel was said to have lived…" he began, launching into another legend of the nomads.

After the Sparrow, Arthur told him of other constellations, though they couldn't see them tonight. When Alfred seemed to have drifted off to sleep, Arthur stood and went to the fire.

As he stoked it, turning the blacked logs so they reignited, Alfred spoke from behind him.

"Don't go tonight," he whispered. Arthur stood, looking at the boy curled in his cloak.

"I won't," he said. "Someone needs to stay and keep the fire burning. I wouldn't want you to die of a chill. That would be unfortunate."

"It would," Alfred agreed. "I wouldn't find out how that last story ended."

"Go to sleep, Alfred."

"Promise you won't leave?"

"I promise."

* * *

Alfred woke cold. Rain still poured beyond the cliff face. His heart plummeted, the fire was out, and which meant Arthur must be gone. He shifted, sitting up and Arthur's cloak fell off him. Funny, Arthur always took his cloak with him.

A soft snore caught Alfred's attention. He turned behind him, wincing as his wounded back protested, and saw Arthur right there, leaning against the wall and fast asleep.

He had never seen Arthur asleep before. His face was smooth, if a little smudged by ash from the fire. He was still damp, though even in the chilly morning, he showed no signs of being cold. He wore the frown that was so typical for him, though otherwise he was utterly relaxed. Alfred felt a bit like he was intruding, as he's never seen Arthur so unguarded.

"You didn't go," he said, too quiet to disturb Arthur's sleep.

"Alfred?" a slurred voice asked. Alfred froze. He knew that voice.

He turned to face her. Arlya stood in the rain, eyes red and fever-bright, clutching Pakram's sword.

* * *

**A/N: Yay! cliffie (kinda). And finally a bit more USUK. **

**As always, reviews REALLY make my day/week/month/life. So please drop one, especially if you see any errors. I have a bad habit of writing at two in the morning, which is when I'm most creative, but my grammar and coherence sometimes suffers (though I do edit as well as I can). **

**Reactions to injuries are based off my personal experiences and stuff I've read, so I hope it's believable. I've had a concussion before (twice actually), and let me tell you, they're miserable.  
**

**So I don't know if anyone reads my ending A/Ns, but I feel like sharing something funny that happened regarding this chapter. So the battle scene was pretty bad and all over the place the first time I wrote it, so I decided to map it out (which I've done with other battles with good success). My mother comes up and looks at what I'm doing and the following conversation occurred:**

**Mom: Why do you have your old college essays out?**

**Me: (flips over paper to show map)**

**Mom: Why did you scribble all over the back of your old college essays?**

**Me: That's a map, not scribbles!**

**Mom: Oh. (walks away)**

**No, I can't draw. AT ALL.**

**/awkward anecdote.**

** ~Kittenly  
**


	10. The Summer Solstice

**A/N: Sorry this is late. While the last few weeks haven't been explicitly _bad_, they have been very difficult. To everyone who reviewed, you really gave me that extra inspiration and push that I need to get this out now, before I lose computer access for a week, so thank you. And it seems my beta is MIA, so this'll be a little rougher than usual. Oh, and I got a lovely fanart! Link is on my profile.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"I found you," Arlya said, grinning to herself. "I'll always find you, dearest."

Alfred stood, wincing a bit as his stiff muscles woke up. He glanced at Arthur, who still slept, oblivious. He turned back to the goddess, whose eyes shone with an odd glazed look and Alfred could see the heavy scabbing on her temple where Natalia had thrown her into the granite.

"Arlya," he said softy, so not to wake Arthur, "Why are you here?"

She reached out a hand for Alfred to take. He stared at it but stayed between her and Arthur, who was beginning to stir. Arlya looked at him, hurt when he did not take her hand. "You vanished," she said. "No one could find you, and I could. The Daemon took you."

"He didn't take me."

"May as well have," she said, raising her husband's sword and twirling it. Alfred looked at it, suddenly anxious. All of Arlya's threats toward Arthur ran through his head. Something was off about her, and it made her all the more dangerous.

"Arlya, please. Take me home. Take me home, now."

The goddess ignored him, looking past at Arthur's sleeping form. She grasped Alfred by the shoulder and made to move him to the side. Alfred held his ground.

"Take me home."

Arlya examined him. Despite the firmness of his voice, he stood before her, shivering in the morning air with his bandages dotted with dried blood. She pulled him into an embrace.

"It's time to end this my sweet," she whispered.

Alfred gasped and pulled away. "No, just take me home."

She tightened her grip on the sword and tried to step around Alfred, who blocked her.

"Alfred, move."

"No. Please, just—"

"I said move," she hissed and shoved him to the side. He fell on his shoulder and his vision whited out for a moment. Rolling onto his back, he panted as he watched the goddess approach the sleeping Daemon.

"Aryla!" he shouted, more as a warning to Arthur than any attempt to stop her. The Daemon's eyes shot open and jerked his head up to face the goddess. He came face to face with tip of her sword and only just managed to twist out of its way as she lunged.

Staying close to the ground, Arthur dodged around Arlya and searched for something he could use for a weapon. Arlya whirled after him, swinging her sword in great, uncoordinated swoops. He ducked under them easily enough, keeping low to the ground, but the only weapon he could find were burnt out logs from his fire, which crumbled into ash as soon as he touched them. Undeterred, he circled Arlya, waiting for an opening.

He waited for one of Arlya's swings to go wild, and finally she over-swung. But as Arthur stepped back out of reach of the blade, he tripped over Alfred's crumpled body. He fell into the remains of the fire, coughing as a cloud of ash rose around him.

Arlya regained her balance and stood over the Daemon, sword raised above him. She smiled calmly and tilted her head to where Alfred lay on the ground. "It's over now, my baby. You're safe now." She received no response but erratic gasps.

Arthur's hand clenched the fine powdered ash below him. As Arlya turned back to him, still gazing with those serene yet glazed eyes, Arthur hurled the ash into her face. She reeled, coughing and stumbled away from him.

Arthur regained his footing and rammed Arlya as hard as he could against the cliff-side. She screeched and clawed Arthur, and he recoiled a step, hissing in annoyance. Alfred moaned behind him.

Chancing a look behind him, Arthur turned to glare at Alfred, eyes burning with fury and hurt. But as Alfred pushed himself up and looked up at Arthur, the Daemon's anger fled as he took in the sight of the boy: trembling and white-faced with fear and pain.

"Arthur?" Alfred asked. Arthur opened his mouth to reply when Arlya lunged at him. He sidestepped and sent her sprawling to the ground. He looked down at her, with what looked like cold apathy. He turned from her and met Alfred's eyes once more before vanishing into thin air.

With a groan, Arlya forced herself to her feet. She glared around the clearing until she found Alfred, who was fighting the pain in his shoulder with everything he had. She knelt beside him and examined him, trying to reassure him. When he made no response, she placed her hand on his side and took him to his room in Caelei.

Francis was already there, pacing and when he saw them appear, he gave an irritated huff and vanished, reappearing a moment later with Heracles and Kiku.

Heracles looked over Alfred and Arlya sleepily before stepping forward and taking Arlya but the arm.

"I thought I told you not to move," he said with a sigh and the two vanished.

Kiku hurried to Alfred's side as he lowered himself onto his bed.

"Is there anything I can get you, Alfred? Something for the pain?" Kiku asked.

"Yes, and some water, maybe?" he said, and then shuddered as his stomach reeled. "Or a bucket."

Francis sat beside Alfred as he tried to keep his stomach contents down. He raised a hand, as if to give Alfred as reassuring pat, but dropped it when he could find no safe place to touch.

"Part of me believes you deserve this for running off last night," he said.

"I had to. I would have died if I hadn't."

"The melodramatics are unnecessary."

"I'm not being melodramatic," Alfred said, lifting up his scarred palm.

Francis huffed and waved the hand away. "I wish I could rid you of that burden. You could have _died_ last night, I'm surprised you're not in a worse condition, to be honest."

Alfred looked up, surprised. "I was a bit of a mess last night, but Arthur took care of me. Built a fire, lent me his cloak, fed me—"

Francis looked horrified at that last prospect. "And yet you live?"

Alfred scoffed and rolled his eyes. "He didn't cook it. Got it from some town nearby. But that's beside the point. I was fine this morning, maybe a bit of a chill, but fine, better than the past week for certain. I don't understand it. It's like you want to hate them."

"Perhaps I want to hate them, but it seems with good reason. Despite how well he took care of you, you are here, fighting not to vomit whatever nice food he gave you last night due to sheer pain."

"That is entirely Arlya's fault, not Arthur's," Alfred defended. "She threw me into the ground."

Francis was taken aback. "Why?"

Alfred shrugged with his good shoulder and shook his head just as Kiku arrived with a pitcher of water and a cup of some medicinal tea.

"Drink this, it'll help," he said, handing over the tea.

Alfred took a sip and winced. "This is terrible."

"It'll help," Kiku repeated, and watched to make sure Alfred drank the entire cup.

The tea did help, and Alfred felt better as the day progressed. By nightfall, he was even better than he had been the night before. Just before he went to sleep, Arlya entered his room. She looked tired, but lacked the glazed, fevered look she had had that morning. Not knowing what to expect, he regarded her cautiously as she sat on his bedside.

"I tried to save you, you know that."

"I know," Alfred began, "But Arlya—"

He was interrupted by her sigh of relief. She looked up at him, a small, grateful smile gracing her lips.

"I'm so glad, my baby. This time was a fluke. He'll be dead next time. You'll see. I promise, this time was just a fluke."

Alfred stared at her gleaming, adoring eyes. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he didn't need saving. She did love him, he knew. She threw herself between him and Natalia, unarmed, and had saved his life by risking serious injury to herself. He surely could give her this little piece of assurance in return. So he kept his silence.

After a moment, Arlya spoke again. "I've been thinking, Alfred, the summer solstice is only a few days away, and I believe it would do you some good to help with the preparations," Arlya said. "It would certainly keep you busy, and the summer heat will be good for that cold you seem to be catching." Alfred perked up, attention immediately caught. The summer solstice was the grandest holiday of the year for the all of the mortal realm, especially those faithful to the gods. The longest day of the year was when Pakram's power, and the rest of the gods by extension, peaked. Before the resurgence of the Daemon War, it was the only time Alfred was allowed to venture into the mortal realm.

Alfred grinned from ear to ear. His fear that the recent events with Arthur and Natalia would make Arlya keep him in Caelei subsided. He couldn't believe his luck; Arlya was asking him to spend the next week or so working in the mortal realm. He threw his arms around her.

"Thank you. Thank you, Arlya. That would be wonderful," he said as she threaded her fingers through his hair. Finally, she pulled back, smiling.

"I will wake you early tomorrow then, and we will go."

Alfred nodded, then asked, "Will you be with me the whole time?"

"I'm afraid not," she said, and Alfred could barely conceal his relief. He would not be babysat then. "There is so much to be done, and I have to make the preparations at my temple, so I will be busy. My dedicates could use your help, of course, but there will be so much work to do that I'm sure you can find other people to work with. Now sleep, dearest, for we rise early." And with a final kiss on his forehead, she left.

* * *

Alfred was awoken the next morning by Arlya. He dragged himself from bed and only managed to wake himself up once he remembered where they were going. The main entrance of Aenea was already packed with traveling merchants beginning to set up their booths along the road. Though the solstice was a few days away yet, most of the merchants had already arrived to claim the best spots along the road. Many were chalking out their spaces, marking where the sturdy frames of their makeshift shops would be placed.

As Alfred and Arlya passed, many people stopped their work and turned to bow, once to Arlya, then again to Alfred.

"Word of our victory has spread quickly," Arlya said.

Alfred nodded and met every beaming gaze with a twinge of guilt. A small part of his mind whispered of Katerina and her innocence. But the longer Alfred met the adoring faces, the smaller that whisper became, until it was quiet enough to forget.

They walked along the High Road and up to the towering temple that marked the center of the city. Over the heavy wooden doors hung the wrought iron, twelve-pointed star, the symbol of the gods. To its right was a brass sun, polished and gleaming, to the left hung an equally bright silver moon marking it specifically as the temple of Pakram and Arlya. Dedicates streamed in and out, dressed in either gold or white robes, all busy with some task or another.

As Arlya and Alfred passed them by, they would incline their heads in respect and continue about their work decorating the temple or carrying decorations and messages across the polished floor. Along the doors and walls dedicates stood on stools, hanging circular plates of yellow stained glass where they might catch the sun and scatter the light across the dark interior.

Arlya grasped Alfred's shoulder and steered him towards a group of white-clad women with black sashes around their waists unloading crates full of the sun-catchers. Upon their approach, the women turned and bowed, once to Arlya and once to Alfred. In return, the goddess approached each dedicate in turn, placed a pale palm on her forehead, and whispered some sort of blessing in her ear.

"These are beautiful," Arlya said, picking up a sun-catcher from the crate. She examined the rippled glass, veined with dark iron in an elaborate spiral. "I believe they get better every year."

The dedicate in charge dipped her head low and flushed a deep red. "The Lady Arlya is very kind," she said. "But our decorations are modest, nothing in comparison to those of other temples."

Alfred stepped forward and took one in hand; he turned it over, admiring it. "No, she's right," he said. "These are amazing. I've never seen anything like them."

"It is a tradition to scatter the solstice's light throughout every house and temple, our designs are effective."

Alfred nodded absently, looking over the temple. "Do you need any help hanging them?" he asked, as all the sun-catchers hung low on the walls or doorways of the towering temple. "I could get up to the higher places. Hang some more up."

"Oh, we cannot ask such menial work from the goddess' charge," one dedicate said, fidgeting with her sash.

"Of course you can," Alfred said, rising into the air, sun-catcher in his hands. "I'm happy to do it."

Arlya looked at the scene with pride. Her baby, happy and helping her dedicates. Nothing could have pleased her more. With satisfaction, she turned and moved along to her own duties and preparations that she needed to make, leaving Alfred to flit amongst the towers of wood and iron, hanging the yellow-stained glass far out of any normal reach.

The sun rose higher as noon came and went, and the temple was strung with little golden plates hanging from every crossbeam and every window. Alfred and the dedicates admired their handiwork before leaving the temple to take their noon meal. The dedicates shared their plain bread and butter with Alfred and chatted as they ate.

For the most part, Alfred was content to listen as they talked about their duties in and out of the temple. However, as Alfred was finishing his meal, a young dedicate with light brown hair and a pretty, open face settled beside him.

"Thank you for everything you've done," she said.

Alfred grinned and leaned back onto the warm stone that made up the temple's courtyard. "It was nothing," he said, and then asked, "So what's your name?"

"I'm Dedicate Selena. I know who you are, of course," she said, blushing, and then stammered, "How is it being the charge of the Lady Arlya? Is it wonderful?"

Alfred hesitated. "Well, I don't really know how to describe it," Alfred replied after a moment. "I've never known anything else. It's fine, I guess."

"I envy you. She holds you in such high esteem." Alfred snorted at that. Selena frowned, dismayed by his reaction. "Do not doubt it, we all do."

"Thanks," he said, though inside he grimaced. If Arlya indeed held him in high esteem, she had an odd, contradictory way of showing it. Embarrassed, they silently chewed their bread and stared at the ground.

The tension was broken by a shadow passing over them and a familiar chuckle.

"I see you've found a lovely lady friend, Alfred. Care to introduce me?" Francis said, approaching them. Alfred stood and introduced Dedicate Selena, who looked positively scandalized. Francis stooped and took one of her hands, delicately kissing it. Selena jerked away and stood, backing away from Francis, face blooming scarlet with a mixture of embarrassment and fury.

"How dare you?" she gasped. Alfred, completely taken by surprise by the whole exchange, looked to Francis for help. However, he didn't look at Alfred; his eyes, which danced with delighted mischief at the woman's reaction, focused only on Selena.

"Oh, come now, you beautiful woman. There is nothing to be frightened of, I am a good man. In fact, there are many things ways in which I am good. And I so do wish to show you all of them," he said, smirk never faltering.

The other dedicates saw the commotion and hurried over. The head of the crew Alfred had been helping put herself between Francis and Selena. She clutched the black sash around her waist, holding onto it as if it would shield her.

Francis laughed at the display. "I assure you, there is no need to be so pushy dedicate," he said. "I have more than enough love for everyone, if you'll just be patient with me, I'm sure—"

The dedicate spat at his feet, and lead the others away. A hand grabbed Alfred and pulled him along; it was Selena's.

"Do you have to deal with that often?" she asked.

Alfred shrugged glancing between Francis and the dedicates in bewilderment. "He gets like that sometimes. Though I think a while ago Arlya somehow threatened him and he stopped doing it to me. Mostly. Though I never really noticed to begin with—" he stopped when he saw Selena's horrified face staring at him.

"He… he did that to _you_?" she stuttered.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. "Like I said, I never really picked up on it. Kiku—a friend—pointed it out sometimes though."

She stood, silent, gaping at him. Finally she spoke again and they continued walking. "But you're Arlya's," she fussed. "That shouldn't happen. How could she let it?"

Alfred just laughed, earning an affronted glare from Selena. "It's Francis," he said simply. She kept staring at him in disbelief, which Alfred found unnerving, so he excused himself from Selena's company and joined the other dedicates in the temple where they resumed decorating.

Once again, he found the dedicates and the others who wandered in and out of the temple good company. Most, if not all, desired to speak to him, and Alfred found himself enjoying their attention more and more. Never before had he been treated like this, almost with reference, by anyone. As such, he was annoyed when shouts and a commotion coming from down the temple road disrupted the atmosphere.

The dedicates that Alfred was working with left the temple to investigate, and Alfred followed. The disturbance came from the down one of the main roads, running from the south-west side of the city wall to the Temple of the Sun and Moon, which was Aenea's center. Curious onlookers had gathered around the source of the uproar and the dedicates could get no closer. However, Alfred jumped into the air and drifted over the crowd.

On one side of the road stood a temple, not as tall or majestic as the central temple but impressive nonetheless. Above its open doors a twelve-pointed star marked it as a temple to the gods. However this star was held by a great polished steel swan, great wings curved up and away over the doorway, its head bowed. Francis stood in the courtyard, facing a woman in the scarlet robes that marked her as his dedicate. Behind her, in the doorway of the temple, other women in similar garb stood, listening.

"My Lord," the woman said, "I assure you your dedicates are always working in your name. Though if you have concerns, I must beg of you to talk of this in private—"

"No," Francis said. He stood, unmoving, arms folded across his tunic. "I have told you, Dedicate, I wish to speak to all my dedicates. I must insist."

"And I simply cannot allow that. It is written that only the head dedicate may speak with the god. So if I may escort you—"

"I said, _no_," he said, voice rising. He glanced over at the temple entrance. "You," he said addressing the dedicates, "gather you sisters, for I wish to speak with all of you. In person."

Some of the women began to move; however the head dedicate shouted, "Stop, my children! It is a test. He is testing your loyalty to the laws he laid down," she said, getting frantic. The dedicates glanced between her and Francis, torn, though they yielded to the dedicate's orders. With a final glance at Francis, the head dedicate disappeared into the temple and shut the doors behind her.

Francis seemed to slump, then turned to the throng gathered silently in the street. With a final glare, he walked through the crowd, who parted for him, and up a less crowded side street. Alfred, who had watched the exchange with bewilderment, followed from above. Both he and Francis were startled when a woman dressed in a red robe dashed out towards Francis. Alfred hovered above, unnoticed, as she addressed him with a bow.

"Hello," Francis said cautiously.

"My lord. I know it is improper, but please, I would like to hear what you have to say. You have met with the Temple leaders often, but they never tell us what is said."

Francis looked at the woman as if heartbroken. Her hair was pinned back in intricate curls that trailed down the back of her simple robe and her face was decorated with subtle yet defining paint strokes. "My dear," he said, "you are lovely."

The dedicate looked at him, confused. "I'm sorry, do you want any of my services…?" she asked.

"No! No. Just an observation."

She paused. "Then what did you wish to tell us?"

"I wished to tell you that I cannot approve of what the Temple does."

"But we do it for you," she said, confused.

"No," Francis spat. "How could I ask anyone to give away their bodies in my name? No, you do not do it for me. You do it for the sake of order; you do it to maintain the balance in Aenea."

"Then what would you have me do?"

Francis looked around the clean-swept street down to the towering walls that closed Aenea off from the world. "I would have you travel, as my other dedicates do. Travel, create, music or art, whichever you should prefer, perhaps have a family, love whom you will."

The two stood in silence. Finally the woman turned back to Francis, "That sounds lovely," she said. Francis beamed, but she shook her head sadly and said, "But where would I go? Albion? To be just another refugee? Drachma? The city those refugees flee from in the first place? Even if there was a place worth getting to, the roads are stalked by Daemons. I'm sorry, my lord, but here I am warm and fed and safe. You ask too much for me to give that up."

With that, she walked away, slipping back into the temple. Francis stared after her, and Alfred touched down beside him.

"Francis?" he ventured. When no response came, he laid a hand on his shoulder. "Francis, maybe she's right. Things aren't really so bad here. Look at the dedicates; they're happy for the most part."

Francis shrugged off Alfred. "They are content, though how long their fragile stability will last remains to be seen."

"What do you mean?"

"The Daemons will destroy this city if given the chance. They tried once already last winter. Who knows when they will strike it again."

"So we have to stop them," Alfred said with conviction. "We need to—we are already protecting them."

"Yes, I suppose we are."

"And that's a good thing."

"Is the stability of one city worth murdering for?" Francis asked.

"What?"

"Katerina was the just the first. To protect this city, the others will have to die. Are you willing to pay for this city with their lives?" Francis turned and walked down the cobbled street, Alfred following a step behind.

"Look at this city, Alfred," Francis continued. "It is the center of the worship of the gods, the center of life for many of the most devout dedicates. From here the gods can reach into the world."

"And do what?" Alfred asked nervously.

"Many things. Do you wish to see?" Francis stopped in the middle of the road. He stared ahead into the center of the city as he awaited Alfred's answer. Alfred looked around at the city, clean and orderly. The buildings stood strong in the summer light and despite the heat, the air was fresh. Aenea was a pleasant city, and Alfred had assumed most cities were like it, though apparently that wasn't the case.

"Yes," Alfred answered finally. "I want to."

"Then it is time for you to see Drachma."

* * *

**A/N: As always, reviews are the most inspirational thing you can give. Especially for this chapter, as it was never formally edited, so please, if anything stands out, say so, and I'll keep it in mind when I go back and revise this chapter. **

**That said, the link on my profile to the maps has been updated, and now there's a revised map of the Mortal Realm, one of Aenea, and another of Drachma, which will be useful for the next chapter. Genius bonus for those who know what Drachma means and how it might be significant~**

**I'm camping this week and moving in and starting college next week, so the next chapter will be a bit delayed. Sorry! But I'll work as much as possible.**

**~Kitten  
**


	11. Drachma

**A/N: Yes, this is the official return to this project. No, this is not the official return to consistent updates. I'm afraid that'll probably have to wait until summer. Sorry. I'm horribly, horribly, busy. However, I was reading through my binder on this project, and thought: "Wow, this is really a great idea. I need to get back to it." So I did. I'll be working on Amor Fati, Sanctuary, and an original novel simultaneously, so hopefully that will help me avoid burnout on a particular piece. My beta reader is just as busy as I am, and I feel terrible asking her to take even more time for my stories, so if any reader is interested in beta reading, please contact me. **

**Yes, I'm titling my chapters now. Chapter titles are cool.**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Drachma**

Alfred did his best not to stumble as his feet landed on damp, slick bricks. The air was humid and hot, and Alfred distinctly smelled fish in the air, covering up some deeper, almost sweet scent. The sun beat down from overhead, gleaming off the tallest buildings Alfred had ever seen. They were made of polished white marble, though many were patterned with chips of some lapis-blue gem. As they caught the sunlight, they threw a blue glow along all the twisting footpaths. Much like Aenea, decorations were strung up between the buildings.

The footpath they had landed in was empty, and while it was quiet, there was low humming in the air that Alfred wasn't sure was real. Despite the heat, Alfred shivered.

"So this is Drachma?" he asked. His words seemed swallowed up by the damp air.

Francis nodded. "The Central District to be precise. Come."

Alfred fell into step behind Francis as they followed the meandering path. In a few minutes, Alfred was horribly turned around and had lost all sense of direction. It reminded him of the canyons in Caelei, only a strip of sky visible through the tall, tightly packed buildings. Francis kept silent, but the humming was growing, definitely real now.

The noise continued to grow, until they came around a bend and onto the edge of a courtyard packed with people. Rising up from the masses was the largest building Alfred had ever seen. Walls of dusky black iron shot up to make a blocky tower, behind which stood a short, long building. The tower could probably be seen looming from well outside the city, even if the tall maze of buildings made it invisible from the inside.

"What is that?" Alfred whispered.

"A temple," Francis said.

"It doesn't look like a temple."

"It's new. Completed only a few years ago, along with the others."

"Others?"

Francis pointed out over the buildings. Through the hazy afternoon, a few other towers could be seen.

"Every district has a temple," he said. "Merchants' District has two. The towers are for watching, the buildings behind are barracks."

They started moving around the edges of the courtyard. Several men in some kind of uniform that bore the sign of Daka's soldiers eyed them suspiciously. A few broke off and followed them at a distance. Francis picked up his pace and Alfred jogged after him. They rounded a sharp bend when Alfred's boots slid out from under him and he toppled onto the brick-paved street. Grimacing, he pushed himself up and wiped the street muck off his trousers.

"Francis, what is this place?" Alfred asked.

"This is Drachma," Francis said irritably.

Alfred sighed. "I know that. But it's filthy and it smells and we're being followed by temple guards. Why is it like this"

"Come on, it's just a little further."

The street twisted and forked. Lining it were dusty, run down shops and smiths, most of which seemed closed. They occasionally passed people, but they all glared mistrustfully and swept away. Alfred was hopelessly turned around by the time the street opened out into a square that housed a group of white buildings. Unlike the rest of the city, the square was remarkably clean, and intricate patterns of blue sapphires decorated the important looking buildings. The only thing that seemed off about it was another, larger formation of guards all marked with Daka's sigil, that stood in front of the buildings.

"Welcome to the Center, Alfred," Francis said, not yet setting foot onto the white bricks. "This is where the city is run. Those buildings house the courts and quarters of the magistrates who keep the city functioning—and of late, er…_representatives_…from Aenea."

"It's cleaner than the rest of the city," Alfred noticed.

Francis laughed humorlessly. "Yes, it is. Wouldn't want the temple officials to have to step in grime, now would we?"

They began walking around the outskirts of the square, keeping to the shadows of the buildings.

"You can tell which streets lead directly to the temple barracks," Francis continued. "They bother to keep those clean."

"And why not the rest of the city?" Alfred asked as they turned down another dim street. This one was short, and soon ended on a small, wooden dock over a canal.

"Too expensive," said Francis. "Why clean the city when you can put that money into the war?"

"The war's here too?" Alfred asked. He wondered if Drachma had been attacked as Aenea had been the past winter.

A narrow boat pulled up to the dock. An old man with a long pole stood in the back. When he saw Francis, his wrinkled face split into a grin.

"This solstice may be blessed yet," he said, dipping his head. "It's been far too long since you've graced us with your presence, Francis."

"Far too long indeed," Francis said, his expression lightening for the first time that afternoon. He took the old man's hand and stepped into the boat. Alfred remained on the dock. The boat did not look particularly stable as it swayed against the dock.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Come on, Alfred, there's no need to worry, the Drachman boat runners are good at their job. You won't fall in."

Reluctantly, Alfred stepped in. The boat swayed a bit under his feet, then steadied. Alfred immediately took a seat. Francis joined him after giving a destination to the boat runner.

"Yes, the war is indeed here, to answer your question," Francis said. "Drachma has become the gods' stronghold—our base of attack in the south."

The boat runner snorted.

"So Daka's guards aren't supposed to be here?" Alfred asked.

"'Supposed to be here' is the wrong way of looking at it," Francis sighed.

"I think the boy has it pretty well," the boat runner interrupted. "The gods ruined our city. That's enough evidence that they're not supposed to be here."

Alfred had never heard such things said about the gods from anyone but Arthur. It took him aback, and he sat in silence as the narrow boat quietly drifted eastward through the city.

When they finally got out, they reentered the maze of buildings, which was even thicker and more convoluted than those in the Central District. The buildings here were cheaper, mostly made of wood, rather than the expensive stone they had seen before. Nevertheless, underneath the layer of soot and grime, Alfred could make out faint traces of patterns where the wood had once been painted.

They ambled along, and Alfred started to get the impression that Francis had no particular destination in mind. That was well enough, for just the aura of poverty that hung around the slum weighed heavily on Alfred's soul.

People eyed them warily, often retreating into the collapsing houses as they passed—or at least until they recognized Francis. Alfred was startled by the swing of mood the god caused. Many came out to greet him personally, as if he were an old friend, and he in turn addressed many of them by name. Soon, Alfred found himself dragged behind Francis into an open, if dirty, square. The crowd grew around them in both number and sound. Francis mingled happily with them.

For the most part, they ignored Alfred. Most glanced at him, then away, and Alfred realized it was because they didn't know who he was. It was a stark contrast to the reverence he was met with in Aenea, but Alfred found he didn't really mind the anonymity. He stayed close to Francis and let the musical voices wash over him.

The crowd began to organize itself, obviously starting up some ritual; people dashed into the dirty buildings and returned with various instruments, which were often better kept than those who played them. Alfred moved off to the side, but Francis stayed in the throng. They formed several lines across the square and soon the musicians started up a flowing, tune led by an elderly flautist. She was soon joined by several stringed instruments, several lyres and then ones played with a bow that Alfred had never seen before.

It was a simple, obviously well known dance than moved like water throughout the lines. Pairs joined hands then let go, never staying with one partner for long. The flute sung in the old woman's firm hands, but soon the tune changed. The lines dissolved, and the people broke into another clearly well known dance. Where the previous dance flowed gracefully, this one had no clear pattern of motion, though there seemed to be a set of steps that everyone followed.

They clapped and skipped along, setting a definite beat to the flittering flute and the strange strings. Alfred found his own feet tapping as he stood observing the dancers. The townspeople were in torn, ragged clothing, but it didn't stop Alfred from admiring the way the women's skirts flew out as they spun or the glittering of cheap glass jewelry in the bright solstice sun.

Laughing, Francis came up to him, and pulled him into the fray. Alfred caught on to the dance quickly enough, and finesse didn't seem to be an issue here. Soon enough, Alfred found himself laughing and clapping as the strings crescendoed and the flute rose above them in a twittering harmony.

That was when the screams started. Guards bearing the sigil of Daka moved into the square and began breaking up the crowd with heavy, lead-lined batons. The throng exploded, everyone trying to get away at once. More than one fell under the harsh cracks and shouts of the guards.

Alfred looked around, bewildered. He struggled not to be trampled and managed to pick up some of what the guards were shouting.

"Damned heathens!"

"How dare you worship scum on the day of the gods!"

"Blasphemers!"

Groups of people fled out of the square, and Alfred was dragged with them. Finally, he managed to extract himself and took cover in a mostly empty alleyway. He looked out, searching for Francis in the mess. He spotted the god's golden hair easily.

Francis was caught up in the crowd too, looking reluctant to leave those who had fallen. However, once he spotted Alfred, he vanished and reappeared by Alfred's side.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Fine," Alfred said. "But what about them?"

"I'll take care of it. Go—"

A cold laugh cut Francis off.

"You're little ploy worked well, didn't it?" a familiar voice asked.

A shadow dropped from one of the rooftops and landed with a thud on the bricks. Arthur stood, glaring, and swept his black cloak behind him.

"What are you talking about?" Francis demanded.

"Clever," Arthur said. "Luring all those people out, just so they could be beaten down by Daka's guards."

Francis' face bloomed scarlet. "That's outrageous? I would never—"

"Oh, shut up," Arthur snapped. "You had guards tailing you. Don't tell me you didn't notice."

Francis froze, his eyes widened in horror. "Those dances. They were Daemon dances."

"What?" Alfred asked.

"Those dances are traditional of the plains people. They worship Elizaveta."

"That's right. You got them to blaspheme and led the guards right to them," Arthur said. "As I said—clever. But I'll warn you now, Francis. Everything changes today. Our people will not—"

"Your people?" Francis shouted. "How are these your people?"

"Are they yours then? You're not even from this world; I am!"

"I'm their patron!"

"What sort of patron leads his people to their death?"

Francis paled. "I…I didn't know. We were just dancing," he said softly.

Alfred stood behind Francis, trying to catch Arthur's eyes. Maybe Arthur would listen to him, but the Daemon carefully avoided even glancing at Alfred.

Arthur snorted. "This is just like you, Francis: too excited about the dancing to ever really notice what's going on around you."

Francis' head shot up and his eyes blazed at the comment. Arthur continued, a cruel smile just barely appearing on his lips.

"Oh, I remember you and your music. You used to play and play and play, lording over everything in existence just because you could harmonize two chords. You even thought _that_ would keep me interested, keep me distracted while you went off and seduced every charming peasant you came across."

"You were envious of my talents. Don't try to deny it," Francis spat. "I know why you left."

Now it was Arthur's turn to flush. "I left because you were an arrogant, selfish fool!"

Francis took several steps toward Arthur, seeming to inflate as he approached. "And then you stole my most precious gift."

"Yes, I was involved. How could I not be when you began to steal our world's gifts?"

Francis lunged forward and hit Arthur across the face with a shout. Arthur reeled, but spun and kicked, his blunt, black nails scraping over Francis' skin.

The two threw themselves into the fight. Francis was bigger, but Arthur was faster and a more experienced fighter. They exchanged blows, neither backing down. Their argument had devolved into a shouting match, and they didn't hear the screams that started behind them, in the square.

Alfred heard it though, and it make his blood run cold. He turned, leaving the feuding pair, and ran towards the noise. The sight made him freeze.

The white bricks glistened with blood. Several bodies were strewn across the square, nearly unrecognizable as human. The guards stood in a circle, executing the rest they'd managed to capture, many of whom were screaming. Alfred recognized the flautist among the crowd, one of the few who remained calm. The guard held her arms behind her back and her flute lie broken a small distance away. Nevertheless, she kneeled straight-backed, and when Alfred caught her eyes, they were determined, not frightened. _Get out_ she mouthed at him.

With a small nod, Alfred turned and took flight. However, he wasn't running. He was going to do his job: he was going to spread the word.

He saw heads poking out of the doors and windows of the collapsing buildings. Daka's guards were trained soldiers, but there weren't that many of them. Yes, the slums were packed, Alfred noticed. Family upon family lived in a single building.

"The guards of the city—they're beating and slaughtering your neighbors and friends," Alfred shouted, his voice echoing along the street. "What will you do?"

Eyes gleamed defiantly. Alfred departed, satisfied. He wouldn't tell them to fight—they'd have to choose that themselves. But Alfred saw the anger and the resentment in them. They had the numbers. They would fight. They could probably win.

He rushed through the air, filling the other streets with the news. Once one area was finished, he flew up and away in search of the other districts' people. He was flying through the air over the canals when something also airborne almost slammed into him. He spun around and found himself face to face with Elizaveta. She still hadn't recovered completely from her fight with Daka. Her wing beats were strained, and she wore only light mail. She glared at Alfred, and swung her spear at him in warning.

"Stay out of the way if you don't want to get killed," she said. Then she flew off.

Alfred planned to take that advice. He turned and flew towards another residential area. He wanted to spread the news of the uprising, not participate—at least not yet.

* * *

Gilbert cringed as he appeared alongside Daka and Vahnic outside the guard barracks. He'd never liked the humidity of the south, and the recent decline of the city didn't help any.

Now that same city was in chaos. Shouts could be heard from all around, and the gods' guards ran about trying to quell the sudden uprising. The head of the guard had sent for Daka, and he met the gods with obvious relief.

"I don't know what's happened, My Lady," he said. "The Drachmans—they just went crazy."

Daka brushed him aside, unconcerned. She turned to Gilbert and Vahnic.

"Crush the resistance," she ordered. "Make an example to the rest of the city. They are under a holy occupation, and this behavior will not be tolerated."

Gilbert nodded and turned away. He didn't really like it, slaughtering these people. But he knew it must be done. It was basic politics: any dissent must be entirely eliminated. And the gods needed this city—it was their only real access point into the south, the only way they could really mount an attack on the southern Daemons.

He stalked off down the streets, just headed towards noise. He inhaled, feeling the bright sun on his shoulders, lending him strength in the humid heat. It wasn't going to be pretty, so he steeled himself now. He thought of the woods this time of year—how they would be quivering with life. The thought sustained him as he entered one of the larger squares in the Central District. It was swarming with people and guards. Already bodies were strewn across the grime-coated bricks, mostly Drachmans. There was something about blood, Gilbert though as he stared at it, transfixed. His vision narrowed, and his hands twitched towards the bow and arrows that hung across his back.

The hunt was on. The smell of blood was thick in the air, and every movement caught Gilbert's eyes as a struggling deer or fowl in the woods. Before he really knew what he was doing, his bow was strung. He vanished from his spot, reappearing on top of one of the buildings a second later. It would be easy pickings from here.

He plucked an arrow from the quiver strung across his back. With almost reverent care, he placed it on the string and drew it, hand resting comfortably against his cheek. He stared down at the crowd, identifying individual creatures from the mass.

_There_, he though as he spied one breaking from the group. He fired, and the woman crumpled. Her blood ran through the cracks between the bricks. Gilbert could smell it. He notched another arrow, then fired. This time a man fell. Again. Again. Again. They dropped like stones.

He notched another arrow and took aim. Another person broke free of the panicking mob. He released, and watched it sail. He jerked with a start as a winged figure swooped down and knocked the arrow off course.

Gilbert rose from his hunter's crouch swearing as he drew another arrow, this time aimed at the flying figure. He snarled, and released. The arrow snapped towards her. However, suddenly she wasn't there, and his arrow arched away harmlessly.

A solid crack landed across the back of his skull. Howling in pain, he wheeled around, to where the flying figure had materialized behind him. Elizaveta landed softly, great wings folding behind her.

She said nothing, but lunged again for Gilbert, swinging her spear. Cursing, Gilbert duck and tried to counter attack. She blocked and gave him another solid blow with the spear's staff. Gilbert's bloodlust roared through him. "Monster!" he shouted, and he spun, trying to grab at the Daemon.

Elizaveta skipped just out of his reach. She pushed off the building roof, and snapped her wings open, taking to the air. Gilbert reached back and notched an arrow, then fired. Elizaveta ducked and the arrow sailed over her. Then she dove, slamming into Gilbert and sending him through the roof he stood on.

"I'm not the monster here," she snarled, alighting on the edge of the hole. She glared down where Gilbert lay in a heap. She spat, then launched herself into the air.

The violent frenzy that had come over him drained away, and all Gilbert could feel was pain that would take weeks to heal. He slowly got to his feet, and found he wasn't able to stand very well. He fell back into the rubble and looked up grudgingly at the hole he'd fallen through, then paused. Something was strange. He hurt all over, but that wasn't what bothered him. It was that Elizaveta had dared to call him a monster.

Though they had both been alive for thousands of years, his and the Daemon's paths had never crossed much, even before the First Daemon war. But seeing her fight today, how she moved and read all of his moves perfectly played over in his mind. And her words. They stung. Why would they sting?

The screams of people, guard and Drachman alike echoed through the city. The stench of blood was still thick in the air, but it didn't go to Gilbert's head this time. As he sat alone in the ruined house, Gilbert realized why Elizaveta's remark stung.

It was likely she was right.

* * *

Alfred soared over the rioting city. The people were making a stand. However the streets and squares were stained with blood of both sides. It pained Alfred, but the Drachmans had a right to fight for their city.

He had carried the message throughout the city. Some places had immediately holed up, keeping out of the fighting. Others had jumped to arms.

Movement caught Alfred's eye. He turned and caught sight of Arthur and Francis. They hoped across rooftops exchanging blows, neither gaining much ground on the other. Alfred could hear their shouts and taunts even over the dim of the city fighting. Maybe he could make the two stop. They weren't even on opposite sides here—they both wanted to see the Drachmans free again.

He was about to swoop in when he caught a different sight: Vahnic and Daka making their way towards the square.

"This can't be good," Alfred said to himself, and tailed them from above.

The gods approached the square, but before entering, stopped. They leaned together, whispering, then vanished. Alfred, startled, looked around, but he couldn't find them.

The mob in the square erupted. In the middle, Daka and Vahnic had appeared, and before any of the people could react, the slaughter had begun. Alfred watched horrified. Struggle between the guards of the people had been a bloody fight, but this was a massacre. In a matter of minutes, the hundred or so Drachmans who had packed the square were dead, soaking in their own blood. The guards had not been touched, but even they shrunk back from the gods in all their power.

As Vahnic and Daka left the square, Alfred knew he had to do something to stop them. He wheeled around in the air, flying towards the only people he could think of that could stand a chance—and who were currently fighting each other rather than the real enemy of these people.

Francis and Arthur were exactly as Alfred had left them. He hovered above them, wondering how best to get their attention. He shook his head. Now was not the time for niceties. He'd just seen a hundred people murdered in just a few minutes. It would happen again if he waited too long.

Throwing caution to the wind, Alfred dropped out of the air, landing between Francis and Arthur. Both cursed and stopped their attacks.

"What on earth are you doing, Alfred?" Arthur shouted.

"This doesn't concern you," Francis said.

"I know, I know. Just shut up and listen to me!" Alfred yelled. He was met with glares from both sides. Shaking his head in fury, he said, "Daka and Vahnic are tearing this city to shreds, and all you two can think about is some stupid thing that happened a long time ago. People are dying!" He took a breath to try and steady himself, but failed miserably. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his glasses and wished he could be more effective.

"What?" Arthur asked blankly. Francis said nothing at all—just turned and ran deeper into the city.

"They're being executed out there," Alfred said through gritted teeth. "And you didn't even _notice_."

Arthur stared at Alfred as if he had grown another head. "I…I'm so sorry," he said, then vanished.

The sun had begun to sink in the west as Alfred looked over the fallen city. The water in the great lake to the south looked uncomfortably red. Alfred sighed. He jumped into the air and set off in the direction he thought Daka and Vahnic had been headed.

It wasn't hard to follow the two gods—carnage lined the streets they had passed. Alfred sped up, eventually opening up into a square. People struggled to leave, and Alfred feared for the worse as he saw two figures in the center of the square.

But as he approached, Alfred saw that it was Vahnic and Francis—not Daka—and that they were locked in combat. It wasn't evenly matched; Vahnic was obviously the better fighter. However, he seemed thrown by the intensity with which Francis attacked.

The two broke apart for a moment, and Francis called to Alfred, "Daka ran off. Find her, Alfred, please!"

Alfred nodded and Francis turned back to Vahnic. Taking a few running steps then launching into the air, he sped off over the rooftops of the city. In the distance, he could see a pair of figures fighting against the red sunset.

Alfred raced towards them. As he approached his suspicions were confirmed: Arthur and Daka were fighting on the rooftops. Arthur didn't seem to be faring well. He was rapidly losing ground and he clutched his side where blood was starting to trickle through his fingers. They moved along the edge of a roof, and soon Arthur was cornered. He wouldn't be able to jump the gap between the buildings. He glanced behind himself, at the drop behind him—several stories tall and ending on a brick lined street. It was unlikely he would be able to survive a fall like that.

Daka made a swing for Arthur. He managed to duck, but just barely. Dodging left him off-balance, and Daka smirked as she prepared for her finishing blow. She shoved him, square in the chest, and he began to fall.

"Arthur!" Alfred shouted, all his recent resentment towards the Daemon vanished. There was no hesitation. He was a blur of motion, and he collided painfully with Arthur.

Alfred grabbed Arthur, and they tumbled through the air before Alfred regained his balance. Arthur was too heavy to carry, but Alfred managed to land them safely on the ground. They lay on the street, panting and staring at each other.

"Are you alright?" Alfred asked. Arthur nodded shakily.

"Yes. I…I mean, er, thanks," Arthur stuttered. Alfred grinned.

Daka burst onto the street behind them, letting out a terrible shriek. Arthur jumped to his feet.

"Come on. Run," he said, pulling Alfred up behind him.

"What about your side?" Alfred asked. It was bleeding freely again.

"Traitor! You filthy traitor!" Daka screamed.

"I'll deal with it later. Now come on."

Arthur grabbed Alfred's hand and took off. They twisted down the streets, trying to shake the war goddess. They were running down the side of one of the canals when Arthur slipped. He hit the ground hard. Alfred knelt down beside him.

"Arthur!"

"Keep going, Alfred."

A thought occurred to Alfred. "Can't you just vanish?" he asked.

Arthur shook his head. "That takes a lot of energy. I can't."

"Come on," Alfred encouraged, pulling at Arthur's arms. "Just a little farther. I'll think of something."

Arthur chuckled, but managed to stand up. Alfred could hear Daka approaching.

They managed to make it to a sheltered corner, Arthur putting most of his weight on Alfred's shoulder. He collapsed to the ground, but Alfred remained standing.

"I'll be right back," he said. Arthur made no response.

Alfred launched himself into the sky, and searched for the figure he'd encountered before. He saw her in the distance, soaring over the city. Alfred made for her as fast as he could.

"Hey!" he shouted as he approached. The Daemon, Elizaveta whirled in the air to face him. She eyed Alfred suspiciously.

"What do you want?"

"It's Arthur," Alfred said, panting. "He's hurt badly and he needs to get out of here."

Elizaveta's eyes widened. "Lead the way," she said, falling in behind Alfred.

They flew across the city to where Alfred had left Arthur, though it seemed they weren't the only ones on the way. Daka had spotted Arthur and was sprinting for him.

"Get Arthur," Alfred told Elizaveta. "I'll distract her." The Daemon looked wary, but nodded. She dove down to the street and scooped up Arthur. Once he was satisfied Arthur was taken care of, Alfred swerved and slammed into Daka as hard as he could, throwing them both into a house that lined the street.

Alfred lay in a slight daze when Daka extracted herself from him and began to screech and curse at him.

"I knew it from the start!" she cried. "You've never been anything but an incompetent pet of Arlya and now look at the mess you made!"

She punched him in the chest. Alfred could only curl up and endure the abuse. She threw everything at him: fists, feet, and insults. Finally, someone pulled her off of him.

"Daka, stop. You'll kill him," Francis said, holding Daka's arms above her head.

"It's nothing less than he deserves," she spat. "You saw him. He _helped_ a Daemon, or had you forgotten we're at war with them?"

"How could I forget," Francis muttered darkly.

"Then let me kill the traitor."

"No. We can't kill him."

"Why not? What else should we do?"

Francis seemed at a loss. Then he glanced at Alfred apologetically.

"We'll take him to the court. He'll go on trial for treason against the gods."

* * *

**A/N: This is only edited by me, so if there's anything I've missed/could do better, please point it out to me. This includes grammar, pacing, continuity and characterization. A note about the last two though. I'm essentially publishing my first draft of a novel, and things do change as I write them. That being said, pointing discrepancies out is unbelievably helpful because then I can note them and go back (at some distant point in the future), and fix things. **

**I had a request to clarify Daemon anatomy: Basically High Daemons (Like Arthur and Ivan) have two forms. Their default is mostly human with animal legs, feet and tails. I picture them much like fawns or satyrs or the Greek god Pan (no relation to Paan in my story). An exception is Elizaveta, who is all human except for having eagle wings. High Daemons can also assume the shape of their Lower Daemons, though it's rather rare.  
**

**Reviews feed my soul. Leave them, especially if you have comments about any of the above. **

**~Kitten  
**


	12. Exile

**A/N: *crawls into a corner and pretends it hasn't been a shitlong time since updating* I decided to chop this next chapter into two shorter ones, just so I could have something to post for you guys. It's unbeta'd because I just don't have time for that process right now. So if you see anything, tell me and I'll fix it as fast as possible. **

* * *

**Chapter 11**

"There's really no reason for this trial," Daka snapped impatiently. "He saved that Daemon's life. He needs to die."

The court was quiet. None of the gods seemed to be able to find an argument against her, though both Arlya and Francis seemed to be wracking their brains for one.

Pakram took pity on them. "He has been useful this past year," he said. "The least we can do is give him a trial before we execute him."

Daka snorted, but relented. She took her seat beside Vahnic and crossed her arms irritably.

"Bring him in," Pakram ordered.

Alfred was walked into the center of the circle of gods by Paan, who gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. Neither Francis nor Arlya had been allowed to accompany him. Paan left him standing as she took her seat in the circle of thrones.

"Alfred, you're brought before the court of the gods on account of treason," Pakram began, from his high, golden seat. "It is alleged that you aided in the enemy, a High Daemon, in escaping death from one of our own. Do you understand the charges?"

Alfred opened his mouth and tried to speak. Nothing came out. He took a moment to compose himself, and then said in as steady a voice as he could muster, "Yes, I do."

"And do you understand the consequences for treason?"

"Death?"

"That is correct," Pakram said. "Alfred, did you or did you not save the life of the High Daemon, Arthur?"

"I did," Alfred said, staring at the ground.

"Do you have anything to say in your own defense?"

Alfred thought a moment, though thinking seemed like wading through mud.

"I didn't think," Alfred said lamely. "It was automatic. He was in danger and I could do something." He caught a glimpse of Arlya from the corner of his eye. She was pale and trembling—with grief or rage at his betrayal Alfred could not tell.

The court weighed his words carefully. Finally Pakram spoke again.

"If you could go back in time, would you do it again?"

Alfred stared ahead. He could say no. He should say no. He needed to say no right now or he'd be killed. But there was part of him that refused. Somehow Arthur had become a friend, and Alfred knew that he'd do nothing different if he had the chance.

Catching Francis' eye, Alfred silently begged him for some queue in how to act. But before he could give any sign, Pakram and the other gods inferred their answer from Alfred's silence.

"It is clear that while your actions were not planned or thought through, you hold no regret for them," Pakram said. "That will be all, Alfred. You will wait while we decide your fate."

Alfred nodded. Francis rose, and looked to Pakram for permission to accompany Alfred. Pakram nodded his consent.

Francis guided Alfred by the shoulder. They walked out of the hall, where they stood a moment on the exposed mountainside. As usual, there was no wind, and the vast height didn't give Alfred any of the usual thrill.

"So they'll just kill me now?" he asked Francis.

Francis tried to smile, but it was apparent that he was worried.

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't let anything happen to you. This will all blow over in just a few days."

"Right," Alfred said, seeing straight through the lie. Francis gave him another sad smile and walked back into the court.

Slumping against the cold stone, Alfred ran his fingers over an imaginary lyre, the familiar movements comforting him. He was dead. There were no two ways about it. He sighed and resigned himself to the wait.

* * *

"I don't think we have much choice in the matter. Alfred must be executed," Pakram said slowly. He gazed carefully at Arlya, who wept.

"I don't believe he would do that," she whispered.

"The fact remains that he did," Pakram said. "Daka witnessed it and he as good as confessed. Francis, have you anything to say?"

Francis thought a moment, carefully choosing his words. "I know our laws say that treason must be met with death. However, I can't justify killing him. It feels wrong."

"Well you can take your feelings and leave," Daka said. "The law is simple. Now, please, let us get _on_ with it."

At her words, Arlya broke into sobs. Her white braids hung mournfully around her cheeks as she sank to the floor. "My baby's dead. He's dead. My baby's dead to me," she howled.

Arlya's cries were interrupted, by a soft, sandpaper voice.

"I side with Francis," it said. "Though not because of 'feelings.'" The gods turned to see Circalous, the eldest god, still seated. He moved slowly, reaching for a goblet that rested on the arm of his throne. He took a sip, then continued:

"When the boy was first brought here, years ago, I saw his future and gave a prophecy."

Arlya's head shot up at this, as she remembered.

"Yes," she said, hope rising in her voice. "It said—"

"'Deep shall he fall, down to Daemon's heart,' only to return and play his part," Circalous said. "You see? Everything is going according to my prophecy. It is Fate's decree that Alfred bring about the end of this war, and Fate will not be denied. It would be foolish to kill him."

With that, the god fell still and silent, turning his white eyes back to nothing.

The rest of the court stood in silence as they digested the information. Finally Arlya broke the silence.

"It seems the issue is settled, then," she said tentatively. "This is just a part of the prophecy. Everything goes back to normal."

Daka shifted uncomfortably, obviously irritated by the turn of events. She did, however, keep her silence—even she was not foolish enough to violate Fate.

Much Arlya's dismay Pakram spoke up. "While we cannot kill him, Alfred still must pay for his treason. I propose he be stripped of his wings and banished to the mortal realm."

Many of the gods voiced their support for Pakram's deal. Arlya, however, was furious and fought against it.

"I just got him back!" she shrieked. "How dare you send him away from me—he'll get better. He won't do it again!"

"I plan to ensure that," Pakram said with as much patience as he could muster. "It's as you said, Arlya. He'll change, and then we'll take him back. In the meantime, though, he must be punished."

Arlya could raise no reasonable argument, so rather she screeched wordlessly at them and vanished from the court. Shaking his head in frustration, Pakram left the court and found Alfred sitting outside. He stared at the pale sky and jumped when Pakram spoke.

"We have reached a decision," he said. Alfred turned to face him, obviously scared, but resigned.

"I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be," he said with just a faint tremor in his voice.

Pakram cleared his throat. "We have decided to be lenient," he said. "We cannot overlook the faithful service you've provided in the past. You will be exiled until such a time it is deemed that your loyalty is no longer in question."

Alfred's jaw dropped.

He wasn't going to die.

He wasn't going to die.

He wasn't going to die.

The realization swelled through him and he felt shaky with relief. The word "exile" hung vaguely in his ears, but it couldn't compete with the knowledge that he _wasn't going to die_.

"Thank you," Alfred breathed. Pakram nodded and turned away.

"You will gather what belongings you can carry, but you will leave your boots here with us," he said. "Now go."

Alfred returned to Pakram a little while later with the satchel containing his lyre and some clothing. He reluctantly exchanged his winged boots for plain ones. Francis had appeared, and when he was ready, took Alfred aside.

"I told you that you'd be alright. I'm to take you into the mortal realm," Francis said. "Arlya and Pakram want you to be in Aenea."

"No," Alfred said.

Francis nodded. "There's a town called Albion. It borders the mountains and the moors. Aenea has a heavy influence there—which will enough to satisfy the others—but it's out of force and fear. I think you can find someone to shelter you there."

Alfred stayed silent, but nodded. Francis put his hand on Alfred's shoulder and they vanished.

They landed in the middle of a cobblestone street, lined with little houses with candles glowing in the windows. The air was scented with wood smoke and summer heat, but Alfred could feel a cool breeze running of the mountains that towered over the town. Night was just beginning to fall, and the shadows of the little houses stretched in the dying light. At the end of the road stood a blocky tower, like those in Drachma. Alfred shuddered at the sight of it.

"Don't worry too much," Francis said, noticing Alfred's gaze. "It's mostly empty, except for a few guards who are probably more interested in the taverns than enforcing divine law."

"I thought you said Aenea had a strong influence here," Alfred said.

"Oh, it does, and you must be cautious. All the citizens here pay the gods' tax, will house any of the clergy who come through, and submit to rigorous inspection multiple times a year," Francis explained. "That, however, doesn't mean they are particularly happy about it. "

"So how do you know I'll be alright here?"

Francis kept quiet and walked on. Soon they reached the edge of town, where the moors began and the foothills ended. Out into the open stretched an enormous camp. Tents were pitched, cooking fires were going, and the quiet hum of talking drifted over it all.

"Who are these people?"

"Refugees," Francis said. "Southerners, Drachmans mostly, who fled once the city fell under divine occupation. Now Alfred, I must leave you, but you will blend in here well. Albion has sheltered the refugees well, as long as they vanish when its inspection time. Vanish with them and no harm should come to you."

Without another word, Francis was gone. Alfred turned to ask for him to stay, met only empty air. He looked down the road, which rolled straight before and behind Alfred, until it was lost to the moors and the mountain passes.

He felt heavy, trapped without his winged boots, but dwelling on it wouldn't make anything better. He might as well get his bearings the old fashioned way: walking about.

As it was the middle of summer, many people were out, even though it was well into the evening. Children ran everywhere, while adults milled about, enjoying the falling temperatures. No one looked twice at Alfred.

There seemed to be little reason to how the village of Albion was laid out. It was nestled right into the foothills of the mountains that held Aenea. Little one-story houses were placed like a jigsaw puzzle where the mountainside allowed them. There was no containing wall, unlike Aenea, and no metal barriers to deter Daemons. Only the temple, the towering blight in the middle of town, was made exclusively of metal.

Everything, from the roads to the houses spoke of comfort, though not wealth. There were no lavish squares or gardens like those of Aenea or Drachma. The houses and people were plain. Nevertheless, Alfred found himself growing comfortable.

"Hey! You there!" A voice called. Alfred turned. A vaguely familiar looking girl ran up to him. She had short blond hair with a blue ribbon in it and wore a light pink shift. A boy, obviously her brother, ran behind her. She caught up to Alfred.

"Hello, you're the boy who helped me find my brother!" she said. That was it—this was the girl Alfred had met at the festival in Aenea and almost sent her to a life of prostitution. Thankfully, she didn't seem to remember that part.

"Lily, isn't it?" Alfred said.

She nodded, smiling. "You never told me yours."

"Alfred."

Her brother finally reached them.

"You!" he shouted. "How dare you speak to my sister after the trouble you caused her!"

It seemed the young man did remember Alfred's involvement with his sister's trouble.

"Oh, be quiet, Vash," Lily said, taking her brother's arm and restraining him. "I was the one who talked to him first. And nothing bad actually happened." Her brother huffed irritably.

"So," Alfred ventured, "you two are still traveling together."

Vash stood back and crossed his arms, glaring at Alfred. "Of course we are," he snapped. "It was easy once I was excommunicated for bringing a woman along. Which is your fault."

"Excommunicated?" Alfred asked, eyes widening. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know when I helped her—"

"Shut it." He looked away and shrugged. "I don't really care. The only reason I was there was because they paid well. Other people pay well too."

"And those other people couldn't care less about his sister looking after him," Lily added happily. "So what are you doing in Albion?" she asked.

Alfred shuffled his feet, trying to find a way to briefly describe it. There was none. "I'm sort of stranded here. It's a long story," he muttered.

"Wonderful," Lily said, linking arms between Alfred and Vash. "We're headed to the tavern, we'll buy you some food and you can regale us with your story."

"Oh, how wonderful," Vash grumbled.

Alfred was given no chance to refuse as Lily dragged him through town to a humble tavern, The Sign of the Ripe Tomato.


	13. At the Sign of the Ripe Tomato

**A/N: ... Don't look at me. **

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: At the Sigh of the Ripe Tomato**

Despite the tavern's weathered appearance, it was well lit and clean on the inside, and the air was rich with baking bread and stewing meat. Most of the tables and stools at the bar were full with townspeople chattering away good-naturedly. Vash, Alfred, and Lily shuffled through the tables to several free places at the counter. When they had settled, a handsome barkeeper approached. He was tall, with brown hair, kind eyes, and dark olive skin. From his darker skin and slightly accented voice, it was apparent that he was originally from the southern part of the world. Nevertheless, his smile was quick and he moved with ease amongst the patrons.

"Hello," he said, smiling. "Haven't seen you around here before. Are you new to Albion?"

Alfred and Vash just nodded, while Lily spoke up. "Yes, we just got in today. My brother's looking for work, and our friend Alfred just showed up too, though he hasn't told us why yet." She grinned conspiratorially at the barkeeper. "Though it's supposedly quite a story."

"Glad to hear it," he said. "I'm Antonio, and this is my tavern. Can I get you anything to drink until we can get some food for you?"

"Ale. Biggest flask you've got," Vash muttered.

Lily gave him a short glare then with a sigh said, "Just some barley water for me."

The barkeep looked at Alfred expectantly. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, so he just stared at Antonio. With a raised eyebrow, he laughed.

"Barley water for you too, I think is best," he said. "I'll send Feliciano out with those in just a moment."

He turned away and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"So," Lily said. "You need to tell us about why you're stranded here. I mean, the pass to Aenea is unpleasant any time of year, but it wouldn't kill you."

"What?" Alfred asked blankly.

Lily curled her feet under the stool and rested her chin on her hand.

"Are you on the run or something?" she pressed, eyes growing wide. "Is there some reason you're not allowed back in Aenea?"

"Why would I want to go back to Aenea?" Alfred asked.

A man—Feliciano—shorter than the barkeep and with auburn hair, left the kitchen and brought them their drinks.

As he placed the barely waters in front of Alfred, Lily said, "You live there, don't you?"

"Oh, no. I never lived there," Alfred said, shaking his head. "I lived in Caelei."

The man carrying their drinks tripped and spilled the water and ale everywhere.

"You lived in Caelei?" he sputtered. "The god realm?"

"Er, yes," Alfred said. He took in the dripping wet tavern hand. His brown eyes glittered and an odd little curl on the side his head bobbed in excitement.

"Then you must have been the human the Lady Arlya took in!" the odd man said. He grabbed Alfred's hand and shook his entire arm. "I'm so excited to meet you. I have so many questions!"

At that moment, Antonio returned. He gave an amused sigh.

"Feliciano! Look at this disaster," he said. With a start, Feliciano seemed to notice the mess he had made. With a swift apology, he ran back into kitchen to get fresh drinks and some rags to clean up the spill.

"You'll have to excuse him—he's easily excited," Antonio said with an amused shake of his head. "Feliciano always been fascinated by religion—in fact he's a bit of a scholar when it comes to that subject," He continued. "Though I fear beyond that..." he trailed off and shrugged.

Alfred nodded along, though he had never really thought about people studying the gods. They were the people he lived with, and he had never considered them to be all that different from the humans he had met.

Feliciano returned, accompanied by a grumbling man that could only be his brother. He was carrying some bowls of steaming stew while Feliciano carried fresh drinks.

Alfred didn't speak much as he devoured his meal. His mind was distracted: he had no food, no money, no place to stay. It was the middle of summer, so sleeping outside wouldn't be that bad now, but if the year wore on and he couldn't return to Caelei, he would have a problem.

His worry must have shown on his face, for after their plates were cleared away, Lily nudged his shoulder.

"Hello, Alfred?" she said. "YI thought you had a story to tell."

"Yes. Right. It's complicated. I have no idea where to even begin," he said.

"Seems simple enough to me," Vash said. "You said that you're stuck here so you must have done something to get yourself kicked out of Caelei. Must have been something foolish."

Lily frowned at her brother, then began to apologize for his behavior. Alfred interrupted her. They were paying for his meal, he might as well humor them.

"You're right, actually," he said. "It was incredibly foolish. How much do you know about the war?"

"Gods tend to pay better than daemons," Vash said.

Lily look at Alfred expectantly. Alfred took a sip of his water and began telling the tale of Drachma, the battle there, and how he had committed treason to save Arthur.

When he had finished, the pub had grown quiet, and most of the patrons were listening to Alfred's story, including the serving boy, Feliciano, who took his evening break close to them.

Alfred looked around the quiet room, uncomfortable with the attention. Finally, Antonio broke the silence. His voice was still cheerful, but Alfred noticed a slight tremor in it his voice.

"You wouldn't happen to know where the fighting took place in? In Drachma?" he said.

Alfred thought for a moment. "I couldn't see all of it, but the city was in turmoil all over."

Antonio's face paled a little under his olive complexion. Feliciano's brother glared at Alfred and elbowed the tavern keeper.

"They're fine, asshole," he said quietly to Antonio. "Now go stir the soup. I won't explain to customers why their food is burned."

Antonio gave a small nod and did as he was told. The man continued to glare at Alfred.

"So according to you, you could be the reason we haven't heard from anyone in weeks. It's summer. The passes are open," Lovino

"Well," Feliciano said placatingly, "also according to him Elizaveta was there. She'd look after us."

"The anima is only one being," Lovino said, but backed down. He turned and followed Antonio into the tavern's kitchen.

"Lovino…" Feliciano said. "He's been acting like this since we left Dracma."

Alfred leaned closer, curiosity piqued. "You're from Drachma?"

"Oh, yes!" Feliciano said. "Born and raised in East Water. We came here about five years ago."

"Was that before or after Aenea started its occupation?" Alfred asked.

"After, I think, technically. Aenea has been in Drachma for almost twenty years now, but it wasn't really noticeable until the war restarted. Mostly bigger parties around the solstices."

"So if you left before that, what made you leave?"

Feliciano rubbed the back of his neck and reddened a little.

"That was because of me. I'm a bit of a religious scholar, and so I spent a lot of time in Drachma's library for a time. I was even allowed to make a trip twice a year to visit the Great Holy Library in Aenea!"

"So it sounds like you wouldn't mind the occupation, if you worked for the gods," Alfred said, a little confused.

"Oh," Feliciano laughed, "Not particularly. You see, it was more the _idea_ of them I liked. My family follows Elizaveta, a daemon."

"And so you did something stupid," Vash said.

"So Lovino tells me," Feliciano said with a smile.

"You're not really in a position to judge other people upsetting the disciples," Lily said pointedly to her brother.

Alfred looked around at them all. They were relaxed, body positions loose as they sipped at drinks and picked at the remains of dinner. It was a picture completely alien to him, but he found himself liking it anyways.

"So what happened?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano leaned forward. His eyes were wide and excited. He whispered to them, "Have you ever heard of the being the gods call, 'She Who Sleeps Below'? I found mention of her a couple of times. She sounded interesting so I kept an eye out for her. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find anything about her. I think in all of the library she only came up that once."

Alfred frowned. As Feliciano continued recounting his examination of the library, Alfred thought about the neame. He swore he had never heard that name before, but nevertheless Alfred felt the hairs on his arms prickle.

"She sounds creepy," he said, when Feliciano had paused for a moment.

Feliciano frowned. "I don't know about that," he said defensively, then he paused, and thought for a second. "Though I suppose a being even the gods fear is probably scary—"

Alfred interrupted him. "The gods don't fear anything," he insisted, "not even daemons."

"Everyone gets scared," Feliciano said matter-of-factly. "Anyway, since there was nothing more in Drachma, I asked myself, 'Feliciano, where could you find more books?' and I realized that the library in Aenea has even more books than Drachma! So they must have more on She Who Sleeps Below!"

By this time, most of the bar had gone back to their business, apparently having heard the story many times before.

"That seems an odd place to look," Alfred said. He took a sip of his drink. "Why would you look in the Holy Library for something the gods fear?"

Vash rolled his eyes. "No it's no. If the gods have something they don't want anyone to know about, it's one of the best possible places to keep records of it."

Alfred stared at him, very confused. Feliciano mirrored his expression. Vash sighed and continued, "Knowledge is power, and so it's in the gods' best interest to keep a close hold on anything that could threaten them."

"That doesn't make sense," Alfred said. "Why don't they just destroy it?"

"Two reasons," said Vash, holding up two fingers. "One, anything stored in the library is not in the hands of people who could use it against them. Two, if you know what your enemy knows, you are at an advantage. Basic tactics."

"Fine," Alfred said, nodding. He looked at Feliciano. "So you went to Aenea…"

"Yes, and in searching around the deep levels of the library I turned up a little more. But then, when I began requesting access to some of the restricted archives, the First Librarian threw me out and banned me from the premises. Of course, first she interrogated me and then I swore never to reveal what I knew. It was only a little while later that the library in Drachma was sacked," he said sadly. "And then my brother made us come north as refugees. When we got here, we met up with Antonio, a family friend, who was looking for help with his new tavern. He hired us and we started-"

Lily interrupted him. "You said you swore secrecy?" she asked. "You just told the entire tavern!"

Feliciano's eyes widened and his face fell. "I did it again, didn't I?"

Just then, Lovino emerged from the kitchen. He took one look at Feliciano and started turning red. "You told them, didn't you? You told yet _another_ group of total strangers how you betrayed the gods? We have a life here, brother, do you want to ruin it?"

Feliciano's eyes blurred with tears. "Of course not, Lovino. I… I just forgot."

"You idiot," Lovino said, swatting Feliciano with a dishrag. "One day, if you don't keep your damned mouth shut, a disciple will hear you and have you hanged for treason against the gods." Despite his harsh words, Lovino seemed more exasperated and worried than truly angry. "Antonio and I can only cover you so much, Brother."

"I'm sorry, Lovino," Feliciano mumbled. "It won't happen again."

He flinched as Lovino whacked him with the dishrag once more and stormed off.

The group gathered around sat in an awkward silence, which Vash finally broke.

"So, Feliciano, do you have rooms?"

Feliciano perked back up. "Of course we do! The finest rooms you'll find in all the North." He continued on, listing the prices of the rooms at the inn. Vash and Lily took up one of the nicer rooms, and Feliciano went back to get Antonio to get them settled. When he returned he looked expectantly at Alfred.

"Which room do you want?" Feliciano asked.

The back of Alfred's neck heated. He didn't actually have any money.

"Er," he said, shuffling in his chair, "I don't actually have anything to pay with."

"Oh," Feliciano said, frowning.

"I don't suppose…?" Alfred hedged.

Feliciano shook his head. "We can't just give out rooms. But you are the ward of Arlya, and you have so much you can tell me. I'll speak to Antonio. Perhaps we can figure something out," he said hopefully.

In a few moments, Antonio returned and Feliciano waved him over.

"We have a bit of a problem," Feliciano said, and explained Alfred's predicament to him. Antonio thought for a while, looking intently at Alfred.

"I can't let you have a room for free," he said sadly. "There are too many refugees for me to offer just one a roof to stay under. Do you have any talents? Any skills I could make use of?"

"I can play the lyre," Alfred said, "But that's about my only talent."

"Can you read?"

"Of course."

"How about your numbers?"

"Good. I'm probably a bit rusty but Kiku said I had a knack for them."

Antonio rubbed at his chin. "That's something, anyhow. I don't know—"

Feliciano interrupted him. "I'll cover the rest," he blurted out. Antonio stared at him for a moment.

"You are not exactly a wealthy man, Feliciano," Antonio said.

"No, but Alfred has lived with the gods themselves," he said. He turned to Alfred, positively glowing with excitement. "He must stay here at any cost!"

Alfred blinked in surprised. "I couldn't…"

Antonio nodded at Feliciano. "If that is what you want." He wandered away and returned a few moments later with a large piece of parchment, and a quill. Together, the three of them worked out schedule that would allow Alfred to help Antonio keep track of money and entertain patrons several evenings a week for room and board. It wasn't quite enough to cover the cost of everything, but Feliciano swore to cover the rest.

When they were done, Alfred was led up to his new room. It was small and tidy. The bed was not as big as the one he slept in at Caelei, but it was soft. In the corner there was a small desk and candlestick. A wardrobe stood by the bed, though Alfred had very little to put inside it. With an enormous yawn, he fell onto the bed and was asleep within moments.


	14. The Tower

**A/N: I know it's been forever since I've updated consistently. I'm working on an appendix of sorts so you don't have top reread all 50k odd pages. I'll link to it in future chapters.**

* * *

**The Tower**

As the days, passed, Alfred fell into a new rhythm of life. He woke up when the smell of breakfast made its way up into his small room. After a few moments of blearily blinking, he dressed, and splashed some cool water from a small bucket on his face.

Downstairs, in the common room, he would eat breakfast with Feliciano, who pestered him mercilessly for every detail on his life with the gods. When Feliciano was called back to work, Alfred would either sit and talk with Antonio or wander around Albion. He stayed quiet for the most part, as Francis had suggested, but he found it hard not to ask questions about everything that went on.

He indulged himself a few times and learned what a well was and how to draw water from it, how to spin wool into yarn, and how to milk a goat. Despite his odd requests, the villagers seemed willing to show him, and expressed gratitude for any help he gave. It made him happy in a way he had never felt before. Sure, he missed flying. But there was different pleasure in drinking the creamy, fresh goat milk that couldn't be gained from using a magical present.

In the afternoons, he helped Antonio handle the money. Antonio was a kind man, and a good innkeeper, but he often had trouble staying focused. With Alfred there, they managed to keep mostly on task.

After dinner, Alfred played in the common room. He had never played so much, even when Francis was giving him lessons every day. He found himself improving faster than he ever had before. The people who frequented the common room enjoyed his playing and were never critical. Alfred even found that later in the evening, when the patrons had all had a few drinks, he could experiment and no one minded the odd discordant note. Except Lovino. But try as he might, Alfred could not get Feliciano's brother to like him.

This pattern had gone on for just under a fortnight when it was time for Alfred to visit Arthur again. He had explained his odd friendship with the daemon to Feliciano, who in turn told every one else who would listen.

As the sun began to set, Alfred set out for the moors with his lyre and a gift of bread and meat from Antonio. The town faded behind him as the grassy hills spilled out ahead. The ground was springy and muddy from last night's rain, though the evening sky promised to be clear.

Alfred walked up to the top of a nearby hill, growing frustrated by how slowly he moved. There was a warm breeze from the south, and Alfred longed to fly up into the darkening sky. He sighed as he trudged along the ground, wondering when Arthur would show up.

Worry started to prickle in the back of his mind as the sun sank below the western hills. Arthur should have appeared by now. He bit his lip. The last time he had seen Arthur was at Drachma, where he was wounded. Was he okay? Elizaveta had gone with him, but what if he was lying somewhere in the moors, alone and bleeding out?

Alfred broke into a run and shouted Arthur's name into the empty moor. If only he could fly. He could cover more ground and find his injured friend.

Images flashed through his mind as he ran. Arthur bleeding under some overhang. Arthur gasping for breath on the marshy ground. He was so preoccupied with his imagination that he didn't see the large patch of heather until he slipped on it. He landed with a thud.

There was a dry laugh from above him. Alfred scrambled to his feet and found Arthur staring at him his face trying to decide whether it was amused or exasperated. Without a second thought, Alfred launched himself at Arthur and hugged him tightly.

"You're alright!" he shouted.

Arthur squawked with surprise and tried to wiggle free.

"Let me go, you idiot. That hurts!"

Alfred let go quickly and looked Arthur over. He still moved stiffly, and he looked tired.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Alfred asked. "You look terrible."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Well two weeks ago I was almost killed by a raving war goddess and then an idiotic human with no sense flew into me at top speed. So I think I have earned the right to look a little under the weather."

Alfred stared at the ground. "I though you were dying out there somewhere," he mumbled.

Arthur's expression softened for a moment. He looked away and frowned. "I'm a high daemon, Alfred. I'm rather hard to kill," he said, and hesitated before continuing. "I wasn't expecting you tonight. Or ever. I thought you'd have been killed for treason."

"Oh," Alfred said. "Well, they didn't."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Obviously. But come, if you're here you might as well play for me. I'll get a fire going."

Arthur set about getting a fire going while Alfred set out the food Antonio had given him and got his lyre ready. He played a couple of scales to warm up, and then when the fire was bright, he began playing in earnest. Arthur closed his eyes, visibly relaxing. A small smile appeared on his face.

Purple evening faded to true night, and the stars came out in force. After a while, Alfred paused and looked up at them with longing. Arthur broke the silence.

"You've gotten better since last time," he said, nodding towards Alfred's lyre.

Alfred grinned. "You think so?" he said. "I've been playing a lot recently. For Antonio." He described his arrangement with the innkeeper. Arthur nodded along.

"Antonio is a good man," he said, taking a bite of the bread. "He would take in all the refugees if he could. I'm sure tried and someone had to stop him."

Alfred chuckled. He could imagine that clearly. He chewed on some bread and meat, looking at the mass of stars. After a while, he found his voice and asked, "Could you tell me another one?"

Arthur frowned and then looked up. "Another constellation?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you have played enough for now," Arthur said. He studied the sky. After a moment, he pointed to the west.

"The Tower," he said. Alfred leaned close to him so he could follow Arthur's pointing. He pointed out a set of six bright stars which made a sort of upside down T. "It's one of the most important constellations to travelers." He moved his finder along the line middle stars made, up until he pointed at a small blue star. "It points directly at the North Star, which is otherwise hard to spot."

Alfred nodded and found stared at the constellation. At least this one looked more like a tower than the last one had looked like a rabbit. He thought he would be able to locate it in the future.

"Does this one have a story too?" he asked.

Arthur nodded. "It's a very old story, and told all over the world. But it came from here. The north." He paused. "It's not a happy one."

"Tell me?" Alfred asked. Arthur nodded, staring into the fire. He was quiet for a few moments and the breathed deeply. When his spoke, his voice was soft and his words fell in a steady rhythm like a summer rainstorm.

"A long time ago, when the land was young, and the gods had only just stepped into the world, there was a kingdom called Lemuria on the northern sea.

"Now, Lemuria was a prosperous kingdom, and was ruled over by a compassionate king and a just queen. Of all the joys in their lives—hardworking subjects, loyal nobles, full coffers, overflowing granaries—their greatest was their daughter, whom they called Elaine.

"Elaine was a bright, but fragile child. Of good humor but often sickly. She delighted and worried the court in equal measures, for it would be tragic if the princess never lived to be crowned queen. Despite the best medicine and care the kingdom could provide, one day Elaine became sick with a fever. She burned beneath her blankets and cried out in her delirium.

"Fearing the worst, the king and queen called in the palace's priest, who would ask the gods to spare their daughter. The priest stayed by her side for three days and three nights, silent and eating only a little.

"Just as the kingdom's hope was fading, the king and queen were summoned by the priest. As the entered the room, a god they had never seen stood there, waiting.

"The god looked up at them, but his eyes were white and sightless. When he spoke, it was hardly a whisper.

"'Come when your hope is dying to offer some respite,' he croaked. 'I am Circalous, the god of prophecy, and I have seen the fate of your child. Away with your fear, for within this tower she will always be safe. But I come to not restore your hope but to give you a warning. Your daughter's fate exists within the tower. Should she leave it, she will die.' Without another word, he vanished. As the god had predicted, Elaine's fever broke soon after.

"As she grew older she left her sickliness behind. She proved a quick study and both her parents were sure she would lead Lemuria in prosperity.

"Despite Elaine's return to health and the promise she showed, the king and queen still worried. And so, on her fourteenth birthday, they took her aside to explain what the god had told them of her fate. She nodded gravely, thanked her parents for explaining and the kingdom went on with its business.

"Elaine took her limitations with grace. The tower was vast, and she never had a dearth of visitors. And the kingdom was happy.

"It all changed when a mysterious illness struck the kingdom. It started with reports of peasants and the rural landowners growing sick seemingly overnight, then people in the city. Soon even nobles were succumbing. The king and queen cared deeply for all their subjects and went out to help take food, water and medicine to those in need.

"Princess Elaine watched them leave, and for once, it was she who worried. Oh, how she wanted to follow them to her people. For a while, she received letters from the king and queen. They seemed in good health, and they provided counsel to their daughter who ruled in their absence.

"But one day, as Elaine feared, the letters stopped coming. She waited for weeks for any word of the king and queen. Finally, one day, a lonely man on a lonely horse rode into the tower courtyard. Elaine greeted him at the door, for he was an old friend of her parents.

"He bowed his head. 'Elaine,' he said sadly, but she raised her hand and silenced him.

"'They are gone, aren't they.'

"The man nodded. Elaine bowed her head in grief.

"'The kingdom is lost,' the man said. 'Our only hope is to wait until the sickness wanes.'

"Elaine nodded. For a while, nobles and surviving subjects went too and from the tower for grain, water, and to give Elaine what company they could. But as the year wore on, fewer and fewer people, regardless of rank appeared. Eventually, Elaine was left alone in the tower.

"Despite her history of illness, the god's words held true. Elaine never caught the mysterious disease that destroyed her kingdom. So she sat in her tower and watched the seasons pass. She watched snow cover the tower courtyard. She watched the first buds of spring peak through.

"It's unclear how long she stayed in the tower. Some say it was until the anniversary of the king and queens death, others say she lingered for years. But one day, she turned from the window. She walked, her footsteps echoing through the empty tower until she reached the gate she watched the king and queen disappear out of. She stepped onto the slight rise of the threshold and paused, looking at the sun.

"And she left the tower," Arthur concluded.

Alfred sat in silence for a moment. When it became clear that Arthur wasn't going to say anymore, he said, "And then what?"

Arthur frowned at him, then looked into the dying fire. His face glowed in the red of the embers. His eyes focused on something far away.

"She died," he said simply.

Alfred stared at Arthur for a moment, as if still waiting. When the words finally registered, Alfred frowned and said, "No. That can't be the end."

Arthur glared. "It is," he said stubbornly.

Alfred stood and crossed his arms, glaring back at Arthur. "Well," he said. "How did she die? Did she die immediately? Did she get sick? Did she just drop dead?"

Arthur turned away. "It doesn't matter."

Alfred's face flushed red and angry heat prickled on his neck. "Doesn't matter?" he shouted. "Of course it matters! What happened to Elaine? Why couldn't she leave? It doesn't make any sense. The sickness had probably passed. She wasn't cursed or anything. She should have been able to leave! It's not fair!"

Arthur waited for Alfred to finish shouting. When he seemed to have calmed a little, Arthur said, "It doesn't matter because that's not the point of the story."

"Then what is the point?" Alfred demanded.

Arthur's eyes snapped up to Alfred's, glinting with impatience. "Well, it's a story," he said. "It didn't actually happen. There was no Princess Elaine, or if there was, she died with the sickness. The point is what the story says about life."

"And what does it say? That princesses are going to die if they leave their tower?"

"No," Arthur snapped. "You're thinking far too literally. It means a couple things. That there are fates worse than death, like being trapped and alone. That fate cannot be denied."

"I don't like it," Alfred said. "Why couldn't she leave?"

"It was her fate to die when she left the tower," Arthur repeated.

"But _why_?"

Arthur shrugged. "It's a common theme in old stories—The Hawk and the Harpist, The Two Lovers, The Lonely Queen—fate is a fact of life, just as the seasons or night and day. It doesn't matter why, just that it _is_."

Alfred threw himself on the ground and glowered at the fire. "I'll make up a different ending," he said. He cleared his throat. "She stepped out of the tower and journeyed far and wide, living happily ever after."

Arthur stared at him for a moment, then made a gagging noise. "That's a terrible ending," he said.

"Better than yours. It's a happy ending."

"Not all stories should have a happy ending," Arthur said.

"Why not? I like happy endings," Alfred said.

"Because life doesn't always have happy endings."

"Maybe if we kept trying hard enough—"

Arthur held up a hand. He looked at Alfred with something like pity. "Enough," he said. "I do not wish to argue any more."

They sat in silence for a long while. Arthur stirred the coals back to life. The firelight cast eerie shadows around them, flashes of yellow and orange licking through the darkness around them. The wind shifted, bringing a slight chill.

Alfred looked out over the moors. He couldn't make out the geography anymore, just dark hills that seemed to be shifting in the fickle firelight. He hugged himself, trying to free his mind from the story Arthur had told him. Elaine's face, which Alfred had so vividly imagined, stared at him through glassy, dead eyes as she collapsed inexplicably one step outside the tower.

Alfred was roused from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. Arthur offered him some bread, and bade him play more music. Out of obstinacy, Alfred chose the happiest stories he could, and he knew many. If he noticed, though, Arthur didn't say anything.

Eventually, Alfred began to yawn. He got to his feet and started packing up his lyre.

"Are you going somewhere?" Arthur asked.

"Yeah."

"You usually sleep outside when you come to play for me."

"I know," Alfred said. "But I've got a bed waiting at Antonio's. So why sleep out?"

Arthur nodded. He rose beside Alfred and shuffled awkwardly for a moment. Alfred didn't notice. Finally he spoke.

"It's rather dark."

"Yeah," Alfred said absently.

"I don't suppose you want help getting back?" Arthur said.

Alfred shrugged. "I could probably get back by myself."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?" he asked with a small smile. "If I recall you can barely find your way out of a hole. Even if you had a map."

Alfred gave an irritated snort and was about to protest when he paused. Then, looking at the ground he gave a small chuckle.

"You've got a point," he said, and then started laughing in earnest. "Lead the way."

The two walked along companionably, chatting mostly about Albion and the people in it. Arthur was well acquainted with Antonio, but he didn't know Feliciano or Lovino.

"So they came with Antonio from Drachma?" Arthur asked.

"Sort of the other way around," Alfred said. "Antonio came with them when Lovino and Feliciano had to leave."

Alfred stopped for a moment, lost in thought. Arthur halted, waiting. After a moment, Alfred spoke.

"Feliciano was banished for his interest in a being called She Who Sleeps Below," Alfred began. Arthur frowned.

"Do you know anything about her?" Alfred asked. When Arthur didn't answer, he pressed. "Feliciano said that the daemons know her as Mother."

Arthur went rigid. His face was masked by darkness so Alfred could not read his expression.

They stood in silence for a long moment, until finally Arthur spoke.

"Do not ask me about her. Ever," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "Albion is visible from the top of the hill. You won't get lost now."

Alfred blinked in confusion, but Arthur was already gone.

"Arthur?" Alfred called into the night. He got no reply.

As Arthur had promised, soon the shadows of Albion appeared, revealed by the faint light coming from Antonio's tavern. He made his way back, much more slowly now that he lacked Arthur's guidance. As he stumbled, he worried about his friend. He couldn't tell if he was angry, scared, or sad, but he wished he had never mentioned She Who Sleeps Below.


	15. The Inquisitor

**A/N: Yay new characters! **

* * *

**The Inquisitor**

Alfred was surprised when summer started to fade. The wind off the mountains gained a bite, and the lower trees started to turn orange around the edges. In the mornings, when Alfred wandered about Albion, he could see his breath puff. Antonio and Feliciano had helped him procure some warmer clothes, but even so, he didn't like the cold. There were other things about the coming autumn that he did like, however. The foods Antonio and Lovino prepared changed, and became hardier. Alfred ate an apple and drank apple cider for the first time.

It felt like he had been in Albion for his whole life sometimes, but at others he felt as if Francis had just dropped him off. He wondered how the god was doing. What was going on in Caelei? Albion was rather secluded, and news from the world didn't travel quickly. Was the Daemon War still waging?

He wanted to ask Arthur, but Alfred hadn't seen him since he had stormed off when he mentioned She Who Sleeps Below. It had been many fortnights, and though Alfred dutifully went looking for the daemon, Arthur remained elusive.

It bothered Alfred in a way that was hard to put his finger on. He missed playing for Arthur, he wanted Arthur to keep him updated on the war, and he also wanted to learn more constellations. But there was something more that he missed. He missed the idle talk and the companionable silences as they shared food.

When Arthur hadn't appeared at the usual time the first time, Alfred had looked for him all night, only giving up when the sun peaked over the horizon. The next fortnight, he took Feliciano with him, and once again they wandered about the moors looking for the missing daemon. Even after Alfred realized there was no point in looking, he would venture out at the usual time.

It was the afternoon before yet another excursion into the moors when the stranger arrived. He was tall, with short, cleanly cut blond hair. His eyes were a cold blue and he didn't seem to know how to smile. Alfred noticed him as he wandered around Albion in the morning. To his surprise, Feliciano walked behind him, struggling slightly to keep up, but he was chattering happily.

When Feliciano noticed Alfred, he grabbed the man by the arm. The man protested, but Feliciano dragged him over to Alfred.

"Alfred!" Feliciano called. "I have someone you should meet!"

Alfred held out his hand in greeting. The man didn't seem enthused to take it, but he shook hands stiffly.

"Uh," Alfred said, "Who is this, Feliciano?"

"This is Ludwig!" Feliciano said happily and hugged Ludwig's arm. Ludwig looked very uncomfortable with the affection. "He saved me from a big scary monster! I think it might have been a low daemon."

Ludwig ears started to redden. "I already told you," he said awkwardly. "It wasn't a daemon. Just a goat."

Feliciano didn't appear to be listening though. Without letting go of Ludwig, he took a hold of Alfred and started pulling them back towards the inn. Along the way, he retold what had happened. Or at least what he thought had happened.

"Antonio had sent me to the market for some flour and cheese, but along the way I was attacked!" he said, still trying to gesture even though he held onto both Ludwig and Alfred.

"I was almost there when I heard a horrible sound and a giant shadowy figure approached me!" He continued on, describing how what he said was a low daemon had chased him up the tree where he cowered until Ludwig came along and saved him. Ludwig muttered that it wasn't a daemon, just a grumpy goat, but Feliciano didn't seem to notice.

When they reached the inn, Feliciano finally let go of them. Ludwig stood awkwardly in the door, and the few patrons in the common room glared at him. Alfred wasn't sure why.

A few moments later, Feliciano returned with Antonio, who frowned at Ludwig. He nodded in welcome, but narrowed his eyes.

"Welcome, Inquisitor," he said stiffly. Ludwig shuffled awkwardly. The frowns around the tavern deepened to glares.

"Thank you," Ludwig said. "I am Ludwig. I am from Aenea, and I am to prepare the town for the rest of the Inquisition."

Feliciano's eyes widened and he looked nervously between Ludwig and Alfred.

"I suppose it is that time or year again," Antonio said. "Have you chosen where you will stay?"

A quiet but harsh grumbling broke out in the common room. Apparently this was a source of irritation to the towns people. Ludwig glanced around nervously and then placed several coins on the counter between him and Antonio.

"I have always been fond of inns," he said. "They have the best beer. How much is a room?"

Antonio's frown deepened, but this time in confusion. He gave the price, took Ludwig's money, and had Feliciano lead him up to a spare room.

As he left, Alfred came up to Antonio.

"How strange," Antonio said.

"What?" said Alfred.

"Inquisitors can invoke the right to shelter anywhere. He could stay with anyone in the town, and they would be obligated to board him."

"Well he did say inns have the best beer."

Antonio shrugged. "That doesn't really have to do with anything. But it is a kind gesture to the town, to not impose and to pay, upfront no less, for accommodation."

"Feliciano likes him," Alfred said.

Antonio shook his head and laughed. "Feliciano likes everyone," he said.

"Sure, but have you seen him? It's like he's imprinted."

Antonio frowned. "That man is not someone Feliciano should be spending a lot of time with. He's dangerous to Feliciano, if he figures out who Feliciano and how widely he's spread what he knows…"

At that moment, Feliciano returned. He rushed over to Alfred and Antonio and began talking excitedly.

"Antonio," he said, "Do you know anything about Ludwig? He seems so brave and so nice. He was nice to me! I wonder where he's from."

Antonio glanced at Alfred, a look of near panic crossing his face. "Feliciano," he said, trying to sound calming, "Have you told him anything?"

"Of course!" Feliciano said with confusion. "It would have been rude not to. I told him my name and I told him about the tavern."

Sighing with relief, Antonio turned away. Then Feliciano spoke up again.

"He asked where I was from, and so I told him all about Drachma. He said he'd never been there before. And he was very interested in Alfred. Seemed like he wanted to be friends with all of us!"

Antonio slapped his forehead. Slowly, as if explaining to a child, Antonio said, "Feliciano, Ludwig is from Aenea. I'm not sure which god he serves, but he is a dedicate."

Feliciano clapped his hands together. "Oh! How exciting. I must ask him more about them!"

"No, Feliciano," Antonio said. "he's the sort of person who is going to report you for spreading tales. He's someone who might take Alfred back to Aenea. Feli, he is not your friend."

"He saved me," Feliciano insisted. "He is definitely my friend. And he is nice to me and listens to me. He's not bad."

As they were arguing, Ludwig came down the stairs. Antonio saw him and went silent, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. Alfred was inclined to agree with Antonio. Aenean dedicates seemed to be trouble. Feliciano, whether in rebellion or just excitement, ran up to Ludwig and began babbling at him, asking how the room was, and if he would like some lunch.

Ludwig noticed the hostile glares even if Feliciano ignored him. He frowned and let Feliciano lead him to the bar. Alfred stiffened when Ludwig's eyes fell on him.

"Alfred," Ludwig said. "Though Feliciano has told me about you."

"I'm not going to Aenea," Alfred said flatly. "There's nothing you can do, short of drugging me and dragging me there."

"I don't know why you are so hostile," Ludwig said. "You would be treated well in Aenea. An honored guest. The Arlyan dedicates would take your happiness very seriously."

"I'm happy here."

Ludwig frowned, then shrugged. "I suppose there is no use arguing about it now. You may be taken there regardless when the rest of the inquisition comes."

"Are you threatening me?" Alfred said through clenched teeth.

"No," Ludwig said. "I am just informing you of a likely outcome."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, tense. Finally Ludwig broke eye contact and sat down at the counter next to Feliciano, who looked worriedly between them.

With a huff, Alfred left the inn and wandered through Albion. As he reached the edge where the refugee encampment was he stopped, startled. There was more activity than he had ever seen. People were hastily packing up, and bands of them were headed out into the moors.

Alfred stopped and asked a woman what was going on.

"That Aenean arrived this morning," she said, not looking at Alfred directly. "The rest of the Inquisition will be here shortly, and they will punish Albion for sheltering us. The town does what it can for us, and in return, we will hide until they leave."

She waved Alfred away impatiently and hurried on her way. Within an hour, the whole encampment had vanished, leaving hardly a trace behind.

Alfred lingered, until his stomach demanded lunch. He made his way back to the tavern, and was irritated to find that Ludwig was still there. The common room had emptied since Ludwig's arrival, and so only Ludwig, Feliciano, Antonio, and Lovino were present. As Alfred entered, Antonio disappeared for a moment before returning with some water and lunch meat.

It would have been an awkward silence if Feliciano hadn't been babbling away at Ludwig the whole time. As it was, it was just awkward.

Eventually Antonio asked Ludwig a few stiff questions.

"If you are a part of the inquisition, that must mean you are dedicated to one of the gods," he said. Ludwig nodded.

"Yes, I have served Gilbert since I came of age."

Alfred laughed a little. Ludwig glared. "Does something amuse you?"

"Why do you serve Gilbert?" Alfred asked. "He's a ass."

Ludwig stared at Alfred. He looked as though he wasn't sure whether to be stunned or offended. When he spoke again, it was unsure and halting.

"My family has always served him. My ancestors hunted in mountains long before Aenea was built. So that's the way it has always been."

"I don't get it. Why would you work with someone that self-satisfied?"

Ludwig twisted, as if to slap Alfred. At the last second he stopped himself. He dropped his hands, clenching them into fists.

"I have never personally met him, but Gilbert has protected and given my family patronage for generations. I find it a great honor to serve him in return."

"You've never met him?" Alfred asked, surprised.

Ludwig shook his head slightly and sighed. "I have seen him at festivals and ceremonies, but no, I have never met him. That's not unusual for someone of my standing."

Alfred started to ask another question when Ludwig cut him off irritably.

"You seem to lack the comprehension that the Gilbert is a _god_. He does not commune with common folk as do daemons or his more…vulgar…counterparts."

Alfred bristled at that less comment, but Feliciano stepped between them.

"Alfred," he said. "Ludwig is a from a line of hunters, who are recognized by Gilbert himself. I thought he could help us look for Arthur tonight!"

Both Ludwig and Alfred stared at Feliciano in silence.

"I can't take him!" Alfred said, voice rising. "He might turn on us or kill us or capture us!"

Ludwig studied Feliciano for a moment. "I think our friend has a point," he said. "If you need to find someone, there is no one in town better suited to find them than I."

Alfred laughed harshly. "There's no way we're taking you."

Ludwig's sighed, and Alfred couldn't tell if it was genuine or not. "A shame then," he said, glancing over to where Antonio and Lovino watched them. "I suppose I will have to inform the inquisition of this inn's unwillingness to comply with Aenea's requests. And that would be so unfortunate for an otherwise pleasant inn."

Alfred was about to argue when Antonio, an unusual note of distress in his voice shouted, "Take him, Alfred."

Looking over, Alfred wanted to protest, but the force with which Antonio glared at him made him falter.

"Fine," Alfred said in defeat. Feliciano yelped in happiness, oblivious to the tension in the room.

* * *

When the sun began to set, the three men set out. As they passed the edges of town, Alfred noticed Ludwig studying the area the refugees had abandoned earlier that day. It was impossible to leave no trace of the encampment, but it was hard to tell for anyone who wasn't looking. Unfortunately, Ludwig was looking. Alfred waited, ready to protect the refugees, but Ludwig remained quiet.

Albion soon vanished into the hills behind them. Alfred stared at the pink tinged sky with longing, missing his boots. It didn't seem to matter how long he went without, he couldn't shake the impulse to hop into the air. With a sigh, he turned in the still evening to see what Ludwig and Feliciano were doing. Ludwig seemed to be studying their surroundings while Feliciano seemed only interested in studying Ludwig.

Once he noticed Alfred watching him, he said, "This will be difficult, even as daemon tracking goes. It doesn't seem like your friend has been around lately."

"How can you tell?" Alfred asked.

"It's hard to explain," Ludwig said. "Wherever they go in their territory, they leave sort of a liveliness behind. The grass is greener, the heather bouncier, the brambles more prickly."

"I didn't know that," Alfred said.

"Not many do, except those from the old hunting families."

Alfred didn't know what to say, so he stayed quiet. The evening darkened, and the wind from the mountains turned biting. Alfred pulled his cloak close, shivering.

"Where are the daemon's usual haunts?" Ludwig asked. He if he was bothered by the cold, he didn't show it, though he kept glancing at Feliciano, who shivered like a leaf.

"Why do you want to find him?" Alfred asked.

"I am just offering my services as a hunter," Ludwig said with a dark chuckle.

"I find that hard to believe."

"It is not my job to convince you. But it would be a shame for the inquisition to hear of you being uncooperative," he said.

"How long are you going to hold that over us?" Alfred asked.

"As long as it works."

Feliciano tripped behind them. Ludwig turned and helped him up, and Feliciano beamed at him. Ludwig smiled awkwardly back at him.

"Be careful," he said.

Feliciano rubbed at his nose and gave another shiver. "I will try to be. I always forget how cold it gets here. Nothing like Drachma."

Alfred motioned towards a dip in the shadowy landscape ahead. "We could stop for a bit," he suggested. "I've got some bread, and we'll be out of the wind."

Feliciano cheered and ran down to their resting place. When Ludwig made to follow, Alfred caught him by the arm. "I'm not an idiot. I want you to stop manipulating Feliciano. He might not see what you are, but I do."

Ludwig watched Alfred for a moment. "I do not know what your mind has cooked up, but I do not mean you nor him or anyone else harm."

"Then leave Feliciano alone."

"You are mistaken. It is he who won't leave me alone. You seem determined to think my every action as a threat."

"You blackmailed Antonio to come with us tonight," said Alfred

"It seemed like an interesting outing. I also pay for my room at his inn, rather than imposing upon the town. I did not act lightly," Ludwig said.

"Then why do you want to find Arthur?"

"Any information about the daemon is useful to my order."

"Fine," Alfred said in frustration, throwing up his arms. "Just don't hurt anyone."

When they caught up to Feliciano, they found him holding some bread and frowning into the distance.

"Does the moon look red to you?" he asked.

Alfred looked up. To his surprise, it did. He had never seen anything that before. Though the moon offered little enough light on a good night, what moonlight there was noticeably dimmed and reddened. Alfred watched the sight for awhile. Even as the moon rose, a dull glow remained on the edge of the horizon.

Ludwig must have noticed it too, because he swore under his breath.

"There's a fire," he, worried. "A big one."

Feliciano looked up at Ludwig. "But there are no towns out there."

Alfred caught Feliciano's eyes and both pairs widened.

"The southerners," they both said.

Ludwig put his hand Feliciano's shoulder. "So there are people out there?"

Feliciano nodded.

"Then we better hurry," Ludwig said. The three of them made their way as quickly as they could towards the ever brightening glow.


End file.
